


Thirteen O'Clock

by kyrene



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Not a Deathfic, but i don't write deathfics, even though it seems like a deathfic for a while, that being said someone does die, totally not a deathfic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrene/pseuds/kyrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The thing about an actual real-life cockatrice that none of them had known, which would have been good to know before the fact, was that it wasn't just its gaze that could kill a man.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The thing about an actual real-life cockatrice that none of them had known, which would have been good to know before the fact, was that it wasn't just its gaze that could kill a man.

"Deaton!"

Derek's voice cracked through the veterinary clinic, Alpha-loud and commanding but at the same time frantically desperate. It set the kenneled dogs to barking and the cats to crying, but more importantly it summoned Alan Deaton out of the back and into the lobby.

The front door had been closed and locked since it was just after closing time, but that hadn't stopped Derek. One boot to the handle and it had flown open hard enough to leave an imprint on the wall beside it.

Deaton didn't complain, though, because one look at the limp body held tightly in Derek's arms had him in motion.

"Bring him into the back and tell me what happened," he instructed firmly without leaving Derek any room to argue or question him as he turned and strode in the direction he had indicated. No that Derek was inclined to do anything other than what he'd been told to do.

"On the table," Deaton instructed, and Derek set his burden down as gently as he was able when he felt like scratching down the walls of the world. 

"Tell me what happened," Deaton repeated, pressing his stethoscope to the pale, unmoving chest. If it wasn't for his werewolf hearing Derek would actually assume that he'd gotten there too late, but it wasn't too late... yet.

In short, staccato beats, Derek explained what had happened. It didn't really take too long.

Deaton already knew about the cockatrice; he'd been the one to tell them what had been roaming the woods of the Preserve and killing deer and squirrels. He'd been the one to tell them to avoid looking at it, and he'd supplied them with the weasel that he guaranteed would kill it once they'd captured it. 

With their werewolf senses, the pack hadn't needed their sight to hunt the deadly creature, which was precisely what they had been doing when this disaster had happened. Each of them had been equipped with a small cage and a bag to throw over the caged cockatrice once they'd caught the damned thing, each of them had been using their enhanced sense to track down and capture the foul creature....

And Derek had _no_ idea what Stiles had been doing there. 

Derek hadn't informed Stiles of the existence of the cockatrice since Stiles was human and couldn't help with their hunt. Stiles was the son of the Sheriff, though, and so he was probably aware that there was something strange going on in the area. That was probably _why_ he'd been there. After all, it had been his idea to go searching for the other half of Laura's body when a rogue Alpha had torn her apart in the woods, and look how that had ended; with his best friend being bitten and turned.

Even taking Stiles' curiosity into account, Derek hadn't thought he'd have to tell the obnoxious teen to stay away... and he could only regret that oversight now.

"It must have brushed against his leg," Deaton said quietly once Derek had done explaining how Stiles had managed to call Derek on his cell and whine out a pained plea for help, how Derek had smelled Stiles close to his position in the Preserve, how he had burst out of the trees to find Stiles lying in a limp jumble of loose limbs next to his Jeep, how he'd shoved Stiles into the passenger seat and broken at least a dozen traffic laws on his way to Deaton's clinic.

Derek was about to ask what Deaton was basing this assumption on when the vet lifted the hem of Stiles' jeans and exposed the skin of his calf. Only, Derek saw with a sharp chill, it wasn't flesh anymore. It was stone. Or if it wasn't, it damned near looked like it.

"The effects are much slower with this sort of contact," Deaton was saying, the words echoing strangely through the buzz in Derek's ears. "If he had looked directly at it, he'd be gone already. As it is, he's slowly turning to stone... from the inside out."

Derek thought he might vomit as this reality forced its way into his mind. Stiles could be a royal pain in Derek's ass, but he was laying there, cold and _turning slowly to stone_ and for all the times Derek had threatened Stiles with physical violence, he'd never actually wanted him to _die_.

"Do something," he demanded, the words ripped out of him painful and raw, instead of coming out as the booming command he wanted.

"I'll do what I can," Deaton said. Derek hated him not a little for remaining calm even in a situation like this, when Stiles was slowly dying on his examination table. And he thought he hated him even more for not promising definitively to save Stiles' life, for not giving him hope. "Talk to him and keep him engaged, Derek. I need you to try to slow the progression of the petrifaction while I go and create an antidote."

"What?" Derek looked at Stiles, shifting closer to the table even though his instincts were urging him to run away, to flee from the reality of his failure to keep Stiles safe, to be anywhere other than _here_ when Stiles' heart stopped beating, when his lungs ceased dragging in agonizingly slow breath after agonizingly slow breath. 

"He's already too far gone to hear me," he protested, because Stiles' chest was barely even moving and his eyelids rested heavily closed against his chalky cheeks. There was no way he could hear Derek talking to him, much less speak in return.

"Talk to him," Deaton said firmly, moving away from the table. "Talk to him until he talks back, Derek. I know you can do that."

Then Deaton vanished into the next room, and even though he left the door ajar Derek felt as though he was completely alone with Stiles. Who was dying.

Derek shuffled closer, sniffing Stiles cautiously. Over and under and pervading his normal scent was the sour reek of fear and a brittle, unnatural odor that Derek assumed was his body petrifying. It didn't really smell like stone, but it definitely wasn't anything that was supposed to be part of a human body.

"D'rk...."

"I'm here," he answered promptly, because even though Stiles' unexpected voice had startled him enough to have his fangs dropping slightly and his claws aching in their beds, he couldn't just leave Stiles laying there alone and dying. It just figured that Stiles had spoken to him first, even though Deaton had entreated Derek to rouse Stiles.

There was a little more color in Stiles' cheeks now, Derek thought, even though he was still corpse-pale. His thick lashes fluttered and Derek experienced a moment of hope, hope that Deaton had exaggerated, hope that he hadn't really seen Stiles' skin turning to stone underneath his pant leg....

Then Stiles managed to drag his eyes open and Derek wanted to vomit all over again.

Instead of the familiar dark brown with amber highlights, blank grey orbs fixed blindly on Derek. They didn't look like stone, yet, but his eyes resembled filmy marbles, and Derek really doubted that Stiles was actually seeing him. He was pretty sure that there was no way Stiles was seeing anything.

"Derek, please," Stiles breathed, and his heartbeat had picked up a little, so Derek thought that maybe Deaton had a point, about talking to him. Now, if only he could figure out what to say.

"I'm here," he repeated, listening hopefully to the deeper breaths and the thumping of Stiles' pulse. "Stiles, what were you doing in the woods?"

Stiles didn't reply. His fingers twitched, scratching at the metal of the exam table he was lying on, and Derek wondered if it was cold, turning to stone. He wondered if it hurt. He didn't think he should ask Stiles those questions, even though Stiles probably would have blurted them out if their roles had been reversed.

"Hang in there," he said awkwardly, because Stiles evidently wasn't going to answer him and he was beginning to smell more strongly of that really _wrong_ scent. 

He was turning to stone right in front of Derek, and there was nothing Derek could do to stop it. "Stiles, we're at Deaton's, and he's going to fix you."

Stiles' breath caught in his throat, almost as though he was choking, and he managed to shift his face a little more toward Derek. His fingers twitched again, the scratching of his nails against the metal making the hair on the nape of Derek's neck rise. Or maybe that was just his own sense of helplessness. He was the Alpha. He was supposed to protect his pack. And even if Stiles' wasn't technically _his_... well, sometimes he felt like the boy was. 

"Did you hear me?" Derek asked. "Stiles...."

"Cold," Stiles hissed out, and this answered one of Derek's unasked questions, but he wasn't happy about that fact. His lashes fluttered, and while the sight of his blank, staring eyes was freaking Derek the hell out, he was suddenly terrified that Stiles was going to close his lids and slide away from him entirely.

"Hang in there," he said for the third time, knowing that he was making a complete mess of this, but unable to think of anything more helpful to say. Deaton had said to keep Stiles talking, but almost anyone would have been better at this task than Derek. Hell, even Boyd might have been better. Maybe not Peter, though.

"Derek," Stiles breathed, so quietly that Derek wouldn't have heard him if not for his enhanced werewolf senses. "Please...."

"What?" Derek asked, leaning in closer even though he was coming to loathe the reek of pending death that was permeating Stiles' skin.

Stiles didn't reply, letting his eyes slide closed, and Derek reminded himself that he could still hear Stiles' heart beating, could still see his quiet breaths lifting and lowering his chest. It was a relief to no longer be looking at those glassy eyes and this sense of relief made Derek feel like a complete asshole.

"Deaton!" he darted over to the room the vet was in, panic causing his own heart to pound, knowing that his eyes were bright red, but unable to help it. He wanted to fight death in order to keep Stiles alive, he'd lost everyone else he'd ever--

Derek cut that thought off abruptly before it could completely form, but it was still ringing loud and clear inside him. He cared, he cared whether Stiles lived or died, and he couldn't stand the thought of a world without one annoying, obnoxious, bold, self-sacrificing Stiles Stilinski.

"Stiles is dying!" he snarled at Deaton, hating the man for remaining calm in the face of this impending horror, even though he knew that Deaton was really the only best chance Stiles had. "He's dying _right now_!"

Deaton was doing something arcane with jars of strange smelling powders and liquids and what looked like a mortar and pestle, and he looked up, giving Derek a glare that was the most expression Derek had ever seen on his face. It might have been frightening if Derek hadn't been more afraid of losing Stiles.

"And you are leaving him to die alone," Deaton said, his voice even but louder than usual. "Not to mention interrupting me while I'm trying to help. I'm doing what I can, Derek. Leave me to it and go comfort Stiles."

Derek swallowed tightly, taking the truth of Deaton's words and internalizing it. He retreated and returned to the dying boy, then for the first time since he had set him down on the table, he touched Stiles.

Placing his hand over Stiles' chest felt right. Derek was a tactile being, as his entire family had been, though he'd been less so since they'd all died. But Stiles... Derek rarely touched Stiles, except to threaten him or to attempt to save his life. Possibly because Stiles was not a member of Derek's pack. Possibly because he felt Stiles would take it poorly. Or possibly... because of the feelings that roused deep inside Derek's burnt husk of a heart when he laid hands on Stiles. The instinct that told him to grab hold and never let go. So best not to touch Stiles in the first place, right?

Derek was touching Stiles now, though. His chest was firm under Derek's palm, _too_ firm and he was _cold_. Derek shuddered, leaning in again in order to prevent himself from running out of the clinic in a blind panic. This wasn't something that was about him; this was all about Stiles. Derek's reactions were secondary at best. Not even that. He was here _for Stiles_.

"Stiles," he said in his Alpha voice. "Wake up."

Stiles shifted, his head turning toward Derek. "Don't.... Don't want to die alone," he whispered. Derek didn't know whether he'd heard what Deaton had said -- probably not, considering his human hearing and the fact that he was fading fast -- but the pained wheeze of Stiles' voice speaking that sentence wrenched at Derek's heart in ways Deaton's words had not done.

"I'm right here," he said, trying to sound reassuring instead of lost and traumatized, no matter how he was feeling. "You're not alone." That was really all that he could offer Stiles right now, no matter how much he wished he could tell him he wasn't going to die.

"Can't see you," Stiles whimpered, his chest rising and falling faintly under Derek's hand. "Can't see, Derek."

"I know," Derek said, mangling the words out through lengthening fangs, even though this was nothing tangible here he could fight. Only the bleak reality of mortality. "I'm right here, though."

Stiles jerked and Derek swallowed tightly, but it seemed to be deliberate as Stiles' hand came up to clasp frigid and loose around his wrist. 

"Can feel you," Stiles coughed out. "Can't see you. D'rk, don't wan' die alone."

"I'm here," Derek assured him again, his throat aching. He knew what he had to do, he didn't have any real reason not to do it, and yet it still felt like something inside him shattered as he reached out and dragged Stiles' limp body into his arms. 

"See? I'm right here," he murmured into the thin skin of Stiles' temple. Stiles let out a low sound in response and it broke Derek inside even more, but made him all the more certain of his actions.

It was beyond awkward, trying to hold onto Stiles where he was on the table, and Derek shot a glance toward the other room, where he could smell something vile and acrid being brewed up. Making a decision with his heart and not his head, he carefully pulled Stiles into his arms and lifted him down off the table, settling crosslegged on the floor with Stiles safely in his embrace.

"Stay awake," he commanded, holding Stiles close and letting Stiles' head rest against his shoulder. He'd been a little concerned that this wouldn't work because Deaton had said that Stiles was turning to stone, but Stiles' still bent at all his joints easily enough, ending up curled in Derek's lap as though he belonged there, pressed against his torso.

Stiles shuddered once, then was eerily still. Derek felt frantic but he held it in because Stiles' heart was still beating and he couldn't let go now that he was finally holding him close, the way he wanted, the way he needed.

"Derek...."

Deaton had said to keep Stiles talking, keep him responding, but Derek had no idea how to go about doing that, he thought with a sick feeling in the back of his throat. Stiles was in his arms but he was slipping away. He smelled more and more like stone and death, less like teenage boy and boundless energy the way he normally did. His heart was slowing and each inhalation was more shallow, each exhalation weakening. He was dying in Derek's arms and there was nothing Derek could do to stop it.

"Stay alive, Stiles," he said, trying to speak evenly when his throat was so tight it ached. "You've got to stay alive."

"Trying," Stiles huffed, then his entire body shook again and Derek swore his temperature plunged several degrees. "S'hard... hurts....."

"Living always hurts more than giving up," Derek said, not even knowing what he was saying but needing to keep Stiles talking. As long as he was talking he was alive. "But we need to keep living, we can't just give up. _You_ need to keep living. Don't _you_ give up!"

"Not sure... have a choice," Stiles breathed out, and if he didn't have werewolf senses Derek was sure he'd never have heard what Stiles was saying. His voice was a reedy thread and his pulse had slowed so much that Derek couldn't believe he was still conscious and speaking. 

"Stiles, keep breathing. Keep talking. Keep living."

"Can't...."

"You can," Derek said fiercely. He clutched Stiles to him as though this would keep death at bay, and maybe that was what Stiles needed. His flesh was hard and way too solid under Derek's grasping hands, so this more heavy touch was probably the only way he was going to actually _feel_ that Derek was holding him. "Don't you give up, Stiles."

He'd meant to command him, in his Alpha voice, but somehow it came out too entreating and desperate for that. 

"Sorry," Stiles wheezed, and he was still talking, even though Derek could feel his body ceasing to function, because that was just how stubborn Stiles was. "Sorry... can't... D'rk."

"If you're sorry, then live," Derek said fiercely, dragging Stiles into the hunch of his chest, pressing his face into the curve of his neck. He didn't think he'd be able to hurt him at this point, and he wanted, he _needed_ to keep Stiles with him. "Don't you leave us, Stiles. Your father needs you. I need--"

He broke off, not because he didn't know how to finish that sentence -- it might as well have finished itself on its way out his mouth -- but because Stiles' heart had stuttered and missed a beat. 

"No!"

"S'rry," Stiles slurred, and since he was beyond the point of movement, Derek drew him in even closer, holding him impossibly tightly. "Sorry... dying in y'r arms...."

"Stiles!" Derek could feel his own heart beating double time, as though that could make up for Stiles' heart slowing and stopping. "Stiles, don't you dare give up!"

"Take c'r of Dad f'r me," Stiles mumbled into the skin of Derek's neck, no heat or moisture at all to his breath. That sensation was as horrifying as the words that he was saying. "Please."

"I will," Derek promised. Because even though he wanted to rant and rail at Stiles, tell him he had to live for his father, tell Stiles that losing him would break his father, there was no amount of denial that would convince Derek that Stiles wasn't dying in his arms right now and he couldn't have that on his conscience. He didn't want to live with knowing that he hadn't given Stiles this most important reassurance in his last moments.

"I will," he repeated, a little more loudly, holding Stiles close, feeling him growing heavier in his arms as he petrified further, "But you need to stay with me so that I don't have to. Stiles, you can't really want to leave your father's health in my hands, can you?"

He was trying, he really was, but it was too late. They both knew it. Stiles let out a little breath and Derek didn't know if it was a sigh, a laugh, or his soul trying to escape.

"Thanks for not letting me die alone," Stiles whispered, surprisingly articulate, but once he'd spoken that sentence his breathing faltered and his heart slowed so much that Derek thought at first it had completely stopped beating. 

It hadn't quite stopped, but it might as well have done because Stiles wasn't there anymore, Derek sensed instinctively.

"DEATON!" he bellowed, and then he coiled in more tightly around Stiles' body, holding him close. Stiles was still present, physically, but as moments passed and there was no Deaton, as Derek cradled Stiles' stiffening body and willed himself not to start rocking where he sat, he could hear his heart slowing... slowing... stopping.

Derek allowed himself one little whine before he closed his reactions off entirely. He'd thought... he'd thought that Deaton would be able to save Stiles. He'd thought bringing him here was the right thing to do. He hadn't thought when the hunt for the cockatrice had begun that he'd end the evening with Stiles dying in his arms.

What was he going to tell the Sheriff...? This was going to destroy the man. Derek knew the pain of losing family members; he couldn't even begin to imagine how it would feel to lose a _child_. Empathy had never been one of Derek's strong points, and the fire that had claimed his family had burned a lot of his heart out of him, but he felt grief for the Sheriff almost as much as he did for himself. A life without Stiles....

"Derek. _Derek_!"

It sounded as though Deaton had been trying to capture his attention for several seconds now. 

"I've got the antidote," Deaton informed him urgently, but he might as well have been speaking another language for all the sense it made to Derek's ears.

"Derek, let me see Stiles."

"It doesn't matter," Derek ground out, and he realized his eyes were tightly closed, as though he was unwilling to face the reality of Stiles' death. "Doesn't matter anymore."

"Derek," Deaton sounded angry, which was ridiculous, because what use was emotion now that Stiles was _dead_? "Derek, let go."

Pure shock had him releasing Stiles as Deaton took hold of Stiles' body and tugged. Derek couldn't believe that Deaton had _dared_....

Then Stiles was on the floor, his hand making a heavy "clunk" sound when it fell that had Derek's gorge rising. He forced himself to look, to fix his gaze on yet another person he had failed. 

Stiles didn't look as though he was completely petrified. His face was pale but the features were still flesh, and if Derek pretended, he might have just looked as though he was very deeply asleep. Derek's ears told another tale, though. There was no breath, no heartbeat.

"You may not trust me," Deaton was scolding Derek, pushing up Stiles' teeshirt and exposing his bare chest, "But trust that I know what I'm doing here."

Derek held himself perfectly still and watched in something that was probably some form of shock as Deaton prepared a hypodermic needle and drove it without hesitation into Stiles' chest, to the left of his breastbone, slanted slightly, piercing expertly and unerringly into his heart.

He depressed the plunger and yanked the needle out, dropping it then grabbing a portable defibrillator. 

"His heart has already stopped," Derek informed Deaton, knowing that despite what television and movies depicted, the defibrillator couldn't restart a pulse that had vanished. Deaton only had human senses, so maybe he didn't realize that Stiles was _gone_.

"I know that," Deaton snapped out, quickly preparing the paddles and setting them on Stiles' chest, above and below his heart, to either side of it. "But this in combination with the dose I administered...."

He didn't finish this sentence because he was too busy pressing down on Stiles' chest with at least the requisite amount of weight, maybe even more, and triggering the defibrillator.

Derek desperately listened, and then almost fell over in shock when Stiles' heart jumped and beat. Once, twice, and then slowly but steadily picking up, headed toward a normal rate. After another moment, Stiles drew in a breath, then another, still shallow and uneven, but he was _breathing_.

"Oh, good, that worked," Deaton said, smiling a little to himself, and Derek felt panicked in retrospect to find that Deaton hadn't been _sure_ when he'd dosed Stiles. He thought that he might want to have some words with Deaton later, but right now Stiles was _back_ , he was recovering from the cockatrice's poisoned touch, and Deaton didn't stop Derek as he reached out and collected Stiles into his arms again.

"Hold onto him," Deaton instructed seriously, moving to clean up the items he'd used to revive Stiles. Not that Derek needed to be told. He clutched Stiles to him, and he held on tight as life returned to Stiles' body a lot more quickly than death had overtaken it.

Derek had been right; dying had been easy, _living_ was _hard_.

Stiles twitched and shuddered and shook in the circle of Derek's arms. Tiny choked off sounds came out of his throat, little whimpers of pain even though he didn't seem to have regained consciousness yet. His mouth hung open and Derek stared down at it in awful fascination. Stiles was in pain, it clearly hurt him as his body came back to full functionality, but he was _alive_ and his mouth was ruddy-pink again, his breath gusting hot and wet through those red lips. 

The noises he was making were sounds of pain, true, and it hurt Derek to hear them but they meant that Stiles was _living_.

"Just hang on," Deaton told him, rising and leaving the room. Derek was thankful for the illusion of privacy, however long it was going to last, and he thought that Stiles might be glad for it too, if he'd been at all aware. Not that he was.

Stiles let out little distressed whines, but his breathing was growing deeper and his pulse was growing stronger. Derek held him close and _now_ he rocked, because it was to comfort Stiles, not himself.

"It's okay," he murmured into the thin skin over Stiles' temple, digging his fingers into Stiles' hair and massaging his scalp gently. "It'll be okay." 

He offered Stiles the same reassurances he thought he'd like to get himself if he'd been in Stiles' place, and he didn't allow himself to stop and think about how vulnerable this was making him, how foolish he probably sounded. The only thing that really mattered was getting Stiles to stop making the soft little broken sounds, and since neither the Sheriff nor Scott where here, it was up to Derek.

He thought, briefly, that he should probably call Scott on his cell to come for Stiles. But he didn't want to give Stiles' care over to Scott. Derek had been the one who had been here when Stiles had died, and he was going to stick with him as he came back to life, safe and whole and un-petrified. 

Now Stiles' fingers were spasming, and he was heaving in great gulps of air, and Derek held on tight, doing his best to keep Stiles from shaking himself apart. His heart had quickened to a rapid patter in his chest, and Derek was calling out for Deaton before he even thought.

"Just hold on," Deaton repeated, suddenly appearing beside them, crouching and placing a warm hand on Derek's shoulder. "He'll calm in a moment. Help him to calm down, Derek."

Even though he knew Deaton was here now, hearing him, seeing him, Derek cradled Stiles close and murmured soothingly into his sweat-beaded brow. His skin was warm, then it was hot, and Derek looked at Deaton in fear, but Deaton just nodded and smiled placidly. 

"His body's burning out the last of the toxins," he told Derek evenly, soothingly. "Just give him another moment. He'll be all right."

Derek glared, not at Deaton, just because he was angry that Stiles had actually died minutes before and was suffering now. He held Stiles close, carding his fingers through his damp hair, still swaying slightly where he was sitting, and true to Deaton's promise Stiles began to settle, the feverish heat of his body fading into a normal temperature. His breathing eased and his heart was beating steadily. Derek didn't think he had ever heard such a beautiful sound.

Stiles' body was warm and limp, not cold and petrified. His cheek was smashed up against Derek's shoulder and if he was drooling a little, Derek didn't care. He was just grateful that Stiles was _alive_.

"He won't wake," Deaton informed Derek quietly. "Not for a while; his system has gone through too much in too short a period of time. Set him back on the table and I'll give him a quick examination while you call your Betas. Then you can take him home or call someone to do it."

"I'll take him home," Derek hurried to say, and while he didn't want to let go of Stiles, he did as directed, lifting him up onto the examination table and stepping away.

"We got it," Isaac told him cheerfully once Derek had managed to fumble his phone out with hands that were unaccountably shaking. "And the weasel did the trick, just like Deaton said. We called, but you didn't answer, so we left messages. Where are you?"

He sounded quizzical rather than panicked, and Derek boggled over the notion that elsewhere, outside Deaton's clinic, life had gone on like normal. Here in the clinic Stiles had died and Derek had felt everything inside him shatter. It seemed strange that no one else knew about what had happened yet.

"At Deaton's."

"Are you okay?" Now Isaac sounded worried.

"The cockatrice touched Stiles," Derek bit out, trying to remain calm. The worst of it was over. Stiles was alive, Derek could hear his heart beating steadily where Deaton was hovering over his unconscious body. "He almost died. Deaton helped."

Isaac made a sound of mild distress. "Stiles is okay now, though?"

"He is." Derek swallowed tightly. That was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. He didn't have it in him to tell Isaac the whole truth. "I'm taking him home soon. I don't know when I'll get back."

"Okay." Isaac sounded a little confused, for which Derek couldn't blame him.

"You're all safe?" he asked, because Stiles had _died_ when the thing had brushed against his leg, and his Betas had been running around in the woods with their eyes closed.

"We're fine," Isaac replied, and now he was beginning to sound more concerned than confused. "Are you...?"

"Fine," Derek said, doing his best not to bark the word, because Isaac didn't deserve that. He didn't really have any clue how bad it had been. He only knew what Derek had told him.

"Okay." Now Isaac was being cautious. "What about the weasel?"

"Weasel?"

"The one Deaton gave us? That killed the cockatrice?" Isaac chuckled. "It's cute. I think Erica wants to keep it as a pet."

Derek scowled and shook his head. He would have to deal with the whole weasel thing, he supposed, but not right now. Not when his nerve endings were still raw and aching from what he had just been through, what he'd had to helplessly watch Stiles go through.

"We'll talk later," he told Isaac brusquely and hung up. It was a little rude, even for him, but Derek couldn't handle any more conversation right now, not even with one of his Betas.

"He's going to be all right, Derek," Deaton said, making it sound more as though he had just finished his examination of Stiles than that he was reassuring Derek of that fact. "He needs a good night's sleep, and he'll be sore and weak for a while once he wakes, but he _will_ wake."

Derek nodded. "Should I...?" His hands twitched at his sides.

"Go ahead and take him home," Deaton said softly, reaching over and squeezing Derek's upper arm briefly, a comforting touch that didn't last long enough to get Derek's hackles up. He felt as though all of his defenses had been stripped away and Deaton had seen to the heart of him. He didn't like it but there was no taking it back. He still didn't trust Deaton, but so far the man hadn't done anything to harm him and he'd certainly helped him tonight.

Derek had driven Stiles' Jeep to the clinic, since that had been the vehicle he'd been lying next to when Derek had found him in the woods, so it wasn't too difficult to get Stiles into his own car and then drive him home.

Thankfully, the Sheriff wasn't home. Derek used Stiles' keys and got him into the house, then after a moment to consider it, once he had the boy laid out on his narrow bed, Derek quickly but carefully undressed him. It was highly unlikely that Stiles would thank him for this, but Derek instinctively wanted him to be comfortable while he slept, and he also wanted to get Stiles out of the clothing that smelled of fear and pain and faintly of death. 

He did leave Stiles in his boxers, more for Derek's own sake than for the sake of Stiles' modesty, and then he found a teeshirt and a pair of pajama bottoms that smelled of sleep and softness, manipulating Stiles' limp limbs until he was wearing them.

Then he tucked Stiles under the covers and stood beside the bed, listening to him breathe.

Stiles had _died_. He'd been dead. Maybe Deaton had been able to bring him back, but he had died in Derek's arms. Died.

Somehow Derek found himself on the bed with Stiles, though he settled on top of the covers instead of under them with Stiles. He hadn't meant to do this. He just... he just really, really needed to be near Stiles again. To feel his torso moving as he breathed, to _feel_ his pulse beating under his skin, not just hear it. Derek needed... he _needed_.

He gave in to instinct and desire, and he stayed there, holding Stiles as he slept, inhaling the scent of his living flesh, feeling his heart beat for hours. Until the Sheriff got home and Derek knew he couldn't stay any longer. Not with the man's weary tread on the stairs. Not knowing that he checked on Stiles every night when he got home late; though how Derek knew that was something of a mystery, even to himself.

Derek left Stiles soundly sleeping, breathing into his pillow, the moon-shaped nightlight glowing softly, and the window cracked because he couldn't escape out it and close it at the same time. Not without potentially alerting the Sheriff anyway. 

Once Derek was out of the Stilinski house he started running... and he didn't stop until the sun had risen and was well on its way into the sky.

It wasn't that he couldn't stop. 

It was that he didn't want to stop.


	2. Chapter 2

"Stiles has... been really quiet." Isaac spoke haltingly, as though he wasn't sure he really ought to bring the subject up. "Ever since the night with the cockatrice."

Derek scowled, knowing that this wasn't the most mature response he could have evinced, but unable to help himself. To be honest, he'd been avoiding Stiles since that night in the clinic, almost a week ago. But he kind of thought that Stiles wanted it that way. He hadn't texted Derek, hadn't visited him, and Stiles had never been shy about contacting Derek before, so Derek could only assume this was by choice. 

Surely Stiles wouldn't want to have anything to do with the man who had held him as he'd turned to stone from the inside out, right?

"What part of 'he almost died' are you not getting?" he asked Isaac, raising his brows. Which was a little better than glaring, even though Erica would have called his expression 'bitchy' and he knew it.

Isaac looked confused.

"We've all almost died, more than once," he said softly, tilting his head and staring at Derek in entreaty. As though he was asking his Alpha to explain. Well, it was true that Derek was the only one outside of Stiles and Deaton who knew exactly what had happened.

"You're not getting it," Derek bit out, clenching his hands into tight fists, feeling blunt nails digging into his palms "He was _dead_. His heart stopped and he was gone. For at least five minutes. Deaton somehow managed to bring him back, but Stiles _died_."

He hadn't really wanted to share that. It wasn't his story to tell. He strongly suspected Stiles wouldn't want anyone else to know how near a thing it had been. What had happened in Deaton's clinic, on the floor, had been something for only Derek and Stiles....

But he couldn't let Isaac -- or the other Betas, or Scott -- go on thinking Stiles was overreacting to something minor. It was true that they'd all come close to death before. Derek had been impaled by Peter in Alpha form, and he'd probably been technically dead for a short period before his body had began healing itself. But he was a werewolf, he _had_ healed. Stiles was human, he had a fragile human body, and he'd been dead and petrified for several minutes. Long enough for Derek to realize how he was going to feel about living in a world without one Stiles Stilinski in it.... 

Strangely hollow and lonely, if he was painfully honest about it, though he preferred not to be honest, to live in denial.

There was a certain sick satisfaction in seeing Isaac staring at him with real shock on his face. Not because Derek enjoyed freaking his Beta out, of course. But because now someone else understood the panic and horror Derek had felt when he'd heard Stiles exhale his last breath. 

"Wow," Isaac gaped, blinking rapidly as he processed what Derek had just said. "Okay, you didn't tell us that part of it."

Derek shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. He didn't really have anything to say to that. It was true that he hadn't told them, not the next day, not any of the six and a half days since... and maybe he shouldn't have told Isaac now, but he'd been carrying the burden on his own long enough.

"Does Scott know?" Isaac asked next, because of course that was where his mind went. Well, Scott _was_ Stiles' best friend, after all.

Derek shrugged again, more violently this time. "Ask him," he grunted.

"Have you... talked to Stiles?" Isaac spoke hesitantly, but seemed compelled to utter the words. "Since it happened?"

Derek shook his head briskly and turned away. They were done now.

"You should, Derek," Isaac called after his as he strode out of the room. "He's too quiet. It's not right. You should... you should talk to him."

Isaac wasn't wrong, Derek thought with what he tried to tell himself was irritation. He was painfully aware that it was closer to worry than irritation.

Isaac wasn't wrong and Derek should almost definitely go and talk to Stiles about what had happened. He just wished it wasn't such a hard decision to make.

It had helped Derek, even if only a little, to talk to Isaac about what had happened. Maybe it would be the same for Stiles..... It was possible he had told Scott, of course, but Derek kind of thought that if Stiles had told Scott the true extent of it, Scott would have shared the information with Isaac already.

Besides, even if Stiles _had_ told Scott, Scott hadn't been there. He wouldn't know how horrible it had been, listening to Stiles' heart falter and fail. And Derek would have bet anything that Stiles wouldn't have told Scott how much it had hurt him when his body had been coming back to life. 

Actually, Derek hoped that Stiles didn't _remember_ that part of it; he had been pretty out of it, after all. But Derek had been there and he remembered and he couldn't forget. The soft little animal sounds of pain that Stiles had given vent to, how he had twitched and shuddered in Derek's arms, the way Derek had tried to comfort him in his pain and distress.....

Derek scowled. He'd been staying away from Stiles as much for Stiles' sake as his own, but now he was starting to think that it would be better for both of them if they talked. Isaac really was right, damn it. Derek didn't have to like it, but he did feel that he had to do it.

And now that his mind was made up, the sooner Derek saw Stiles, the better. 

+++

Because he wasn't stupid, Derek waited until the Sheriff was out. He also made sure that Stiles was home and that there was no sign of Scott or anyone else in the house. Whether Stiles had told Scott what had happened or not, this was a conversation for only Derek and Stiles. Whatever they might end up talking about.

Derek parked a block over but then knocked on the front door. Now definitely wasn't the time for breaking and entering.

He could hear Stiles in the house, moving slowly toward the front door, and he remembered what Deaton had said about him being sore and weak. He wondered how long that had lasted. It had been nearly a week since it had happened, so surely Stiles was back to normal by now...?

"Derek?"

"Stiles," he said uncomfortably, shifting where he was standing, his eyes greedily soaking in the sight of Stiles framed in the open doorway. He looked... like Stiles. Nothing seemed irrevocably different. There were shadows under his eyes that were a bit darker than usual, and his cheekbones were worrisomely stark, but he'd looked this exhausted before. More than once, in fact.

Stiles blinked a couple of times, then his lips stretched in a smile that was not much of a smile at all. "Do you wanna come in?" he asked, taking a step back.

"That's why I'm here," Derek grunted, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. Yeah, it was rude of him, but he didn't need to be gracious with Stiles.

He followed Stiles into the kitchen, watching him walk. He seemed to be completely recovered, as far as Derek could tell. He smelled like he always had. His heartbeat was strong and steady. It was as though nothing had happened... except, as Isaac had said, he was _quiet_.

"You want a soda?" Stiles asked, opening the fridge and peering over his shoulder at Derek with his brows raised. He wasn't as animated as he often was, but he wasn't flat. He just looked... tired. "Coffee? Water?"

Derek considered it a moment, whether a drink would help the stiff discomfort between them, but after a moment he shook his head. He wasn't thirsty.

Stiles stared at him a couple of heartbeats longer, then quirked a small grin that looked a little more real and shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, grabbing a can and closing the fridge. "Do you wanna go up to my room?"

Derek nodded. So far he wasn't doing an incredibly good job of talking to Stiles, he was well aware. But this wasn't something he could just dive into. _"Hey, remember when you died in my arms?"_ No. He was here to talk to Stiles, but he was also here in case Stiles needed to talk to him, and Stiles was talking now. Which was more than he'd been doing lately at school, according to Isaac.

Stiles was silent, though, as he led Derek upstairs. He was moving freely, but Derek could easily recall the way his limbs had been heavy and unmoving. It made him shiver, even though Stiles was better now.

"So," Stiles said, once he'd waved Derek toward his desk chair and seated himself on the end of his bed, handling his soda with both hands but not moving to open the can. "Here we are." He took a deep breath. "Thank you. For, you know. Getting me to Deaton's and saving my life."

He stared at Derek as he spoke, his eyes bright and clear. Nothing like the filmy marbles they'd been when the cockatrice's poison had been petrifying him internally. His expression was guarded, but his lips were soft, and he looked _alive_.

"You called me for help," Derek said roughly, not sure what he was going to say until he said it. "I helped."

Stiles nodded.

"I was too late," Derek continued, swallowing painfully and clenching his hands on his thighs. "You died. Before Deaton could do anything, you died. You were dead. He brought you back." It was as though the words had been forced out of him, as though he wanted Stiles to know the entirety of the horror that had befallen him. As though Stiles might be unaware.

"Yeah." Stiles smiled at him, his fixed gaze going a bit distant. "I actually got him a flower arrangement for that. Stupid, but... what do you get the man who saved your life?" His eyes sharpened and pinned Derek in place. "What should I get _you_ in thanks, Derek?"

"You're alive," Derek said, feeling as though his lips were numb. "That's all that matters."

Stiles blinked at him in surprise, long lashes flickering over clear brown eyes, those red lips hanging open. "Oh. Okay."

Neither of them followed this bold declaration up with anything, and they sat there in moderately awkward silence for nearly two minutes. Derek wondered whether Stiles would have been able to maintain that _before_ he'd died. It wasn't exactly a comfortable thought.

He wanted to ask Stiles if he was okay. He wanted to ask how much he remembered. He wanted to go and sit next to Stiles and pull him close and just breathe in the normal, everyday scent of him. He couldn't do any of these things; most especially not that last.

"Thank you," Stiles said again, staring at Derek as though he was waiting for something. His long, lean fingers were turning the soda can around and around, trailing slick through the condensation beading on the surface, and his face was warm with blood. "Not just for driving me to Deaton. You..." he licked his lips, "You stayed. While I was turning to stone. And you... Deaton said you took me home... after?"

Derek nodded but didn't reply verbally because he didn't know that to say. He had come here to find out how much Stiles remembered, but now that they were talking about it he felt incredibly uncomfortable.

"Did you...." Stiles' brow wrinkled in a deep frown, one that curved his lips down at the corners and stretched the skin over his cheekbones and jaw. "You promised that you'd look out for my Dad... once I was gone... didn't you?"

Derek nodded jerkily, wishing he had accepted the offer of a soda, because then he could be doing something with his hands other than digging his nails into his thighs.

"I did," he confirmed. He didn't like remembering those last horrible moments, as Stiles had stopped breathing in his arms. And then the _minutes_ that followed, when Stiles had continued to not breathe.

"Why?" Stiles looked at him with bright, inquisitive eyes.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Stiles' chair creaking under his weight. "You were dying, Stiles."

Stiles stared at him steadily. "So you didn't really mean it?" he asked curiously. There was no judgment in his tone, but Derek bristled anyway.

"No. I meant it," he scowled.

"You...." Stiles' mouth was open again, and he looked honestly confounded. "But _why_?"

"Because you asked me to."

It was as simple as that, honestly, but this didn't seem to be the reply Stiles had been expecting. The soda can slipped out of Stiles' fingers and hit the carpeted floor with a thunk that reminded Derek a little too much of Stiles' petrified hand striking the floor of Deaton's examination room, but he held onto his response, simply watching quietly as Stiles cursed and bent to pick the can up, seeming flustered.

"Since when have you ever done anything I've asked?" Stiles wanted to know, sounding confused rather than combative.

"Since you _died_ ," Derek cracked out, his brows descending. It seemed wrong to be glaring at Stiles for having died, but Derek couldn't help the expression.

Stiles hunched into himself a little, then set the soda can aside on his bedcovers and leaned forward, elbows planted on his thighs. He was wearing a red plaid and the shade reflected onto his face, giving it even more color. Which was only a good thing when the last time Derek had seen him he'd been pale and still as death.

"I'm alive now," Stiles offered, spreading his hands. "Thanks to you."

Derek nodded. He didn't really have anything else to say. Stiles was alive and it was as much thanks to Derek as Deaton, and vice versa. He wasn't really comfortable with Stiles thanking him, but it would have been worse to reject his gratitude.

"I'm glad I called you," Stiles said, so softly that Derek almost didn't hear him. "I'm glad you came."

"Yeah." Derek ducked his head. Then something occurred to him, something that had him frowning faintly and raising his head. "What were you doing out there anyway?"

Stiles shifted where he sat and looked a little embarrassed. "I just... uh... wanted to know what was going on. I didn't.... No one told me it was a _cockatrice_. Deaton told me later, when I took him the flower arrangement, how dangerous that thing was, but at the time I had no idea."

Derek sat and digested that for a moment. "Did you know we were out there hunting it?"

Stiles shook his head. "No. I was just curious about what was killing the animals."

"So you thought driving out to the woods where animals were _dying_ was a good idea?" Derek asked incredulously, brows rising. He knew that Stiles lacked good sense at times -- that was why Scott was a werewolf now, after all -- but when dead rabbits and deer were turning up, shouldn't that be a clear warning to stay out of the Preserve?

Stiles shrugged uncomfortably. "Well.... It was only animals that were dying. Not people...."

"Not yet," Derek ground out, feeling the panic swell inside him all over again; not wild, just like an aching echo, a reminder of what had happened to Stiles and how it had made Derek feel. "You came out of the encounter pretty dead, Stiles," he barked, and he knew he sounded pissed off, but Stiles _had died_.

Stiles' mouth turned down at the corners, but he seemed more sheepish than defensive over the whole thing. "But you were there to take me to Deaton's. And he knew how to fix me," he offered, spreading his hands wide.

Derek felt a sudden stab of cold when he realized that Stiles had called him for help when _he hadn't even known Derek had been nearby_. What if he'd been at home or in town or something? Stiles would have died before Derek could have gotten there! And Derek strongly suspected that the longer Stiles had remained petrified, the less likely it would have been that Deaton would have been able to bring him back.

"Why didn't you call someone else?" he asked urgently, because now that he knew Stiles hadn't known he was nearby, this was a very pertinent question.

Stiles bit his lip. "My hands were barely working," he replied awkwardly. "And you were the one I happened to hit on speed dial."

Stiles was lying. He was lying and Derek wanted to know why, but he knew he'd never get a straight answer if he just asked outright.

"I'm sorry," Derek gruffed out, nails digging into his jeans again. 

"For... helping me?" Stiles hazarded, his incredulous eyebrow quirk and the tone of his voice making it clear he didn't actually think that had been what Derek had meant.

Derek shook his head, trying to order his thoughts, anticipating Stiles' next question.

"Then what the heck are you sorry for?"

Derek flexed his fingers, listening to his blunt nails catching in the denim. At least they weren't claws, though this entire conversation was making him feel very defensive.

"It shouldn't have been me there," he forced out. "It should have been Scott. Or maybe...."

Stiles straightened, glaring at him. "If you say my Dad I'm going to come over there and punch you in the face," he snapped. "He already had to watch my Mom die. He didn't need to see--"

He broke off and shook his head, his throat working tensely. Derek felt bad and he wanted to take the words back or maybe say something else, but before he could think of what, Stiles continued.

"If Scott had been there, it would have been all about him. _He_ was losing his best friend. _He_ couldn't save me. You held me and you made it about _me_ , Derek. That was what I needed."

Derek was silent for a long moment, working his way through this startling declaration. "It felt like it was about me," he offered weakly.

Stiles smiled, an actual real smile, curving his lips softly. Derek didn't think he'd ever seen a _real_ smile on Stiles' face before; at least not aimed at him. 

"I doubt that," Stiles said, standing and approaching Derek, slowly, as though he was afraid he might startle him or something. "But even if that's true, you didn't act that way. You... you comforted me, Derek. I was scared and it was cold. It hurt. I could feel my body turning to stone, and I couldn't _see_ anymore. And you could have just dumped me on Deaton and left, but you--"

"No!" Derek snapped, rising and standing facing Stiles where he'd frozen in the middle of his bedroom. He sucked in a deep breath and continued, struggling for a calm that he didn't feel. "I couldn't just leave you there, Stiles. You were _dying_. You needed.... You needed someone there."

Stiles relaxed a little, taking a step forward and reaching a hand tentatively toward Derek. "That's the thing," he said, and Derek allowed Stiles to clasp his upper arm lightly through the leather of his jacket. "You stayed because it was the right thing to do. No one else would have done that, not for that reason. And you made me feel safe, even though I was dying. You told me to hold on, and when I couldn't, you set my mind at ease about my Dad. You were everything I needed you to be, Derek. You're the one person I trust to watch over me while I die."

Derek's hair bristled, and he wasn't sure whether it was because Stiles had so casually mentioned dying, or if it was his use of the word "trust".

"You don't trust me," he growled, yanking his arm away. But he didn't leave the room. He was too weak to do that, even though it was what he probably should do. It was too good to see Stiles, talking and breathing and _alive_. Even if what he was saying was making Derek feel very uncomfortable.

"I do, actually," Stiles corrected, twining his hands together before his chest and looking at Derek earnestly. "You can deny it if you want, but you can't tell me how I feel. Something about dying in someone's arms lends clarity to a few things."

Derek whined -- he actually whined, and he was humiliated by that sound, but it was too late to retrieve it -- when Stiles mentioned his death again. 

Without thinking about why it was a very bad idea, he reached forward and grabbed at Stiles, dragging him into his arms and burying his face in the curve of his neck. Stiles smelled exactly like he was supposed to. Clean skin, faint salty perspiration, lingering deodorant, traces of his father, Scott, and Isaac, a hint of pineapple for some reason... but mostly he just smelled _alive_.

Derek might have been more horrified by what he'd just done if Stiles' arms hadn't come around him in return, squeezing him just as tightly. His cheekbone was hard and pointed against Derek's ear, and his breathing had picked up a little, but he seemed almost to become more settled, held close against Derek's chest, holding him in return.

They stood there for almost a full minute, and Derek kind of figured that neither of them knew how to break the moment. Neither of them really wanted to, maybe.

It was Stiles who finally spoke, which didn't surprise Derek, even though Isaac had said he had been more quiet lately, and Derek had proven the truth of this during his visit today. 

"Hugging. We're hugging," he said, speaking into Derek's shoulder. Derek had his nose pressed into the flesh of Stiles' neck, feeling his pulse beating through the thin skin, allowing the scent of Stiles to wash over his senses and calm him.

"This isn't hugging," Derek growled, raising his head and loosening his arms as he took a step back. Stiles released him reluctantly, his fingers grasping uselessly at the leather of Derek's jacket before his hands fell away entirely, arms hanging at his sides.

"What was it then, dude?" Stiles asked, brows arching in query over his bright eyes. His cheeks were a little flushed, but he didn't look embarrassed. Maybe a little shy, and it made Derek want to tug him in close again and sniff him all over. Maybe rub the pad of his thumb over those parted red lips....

"I was holding you," Derek said gruffly, trying to justify it as much to himself as to Stiles. "The way I did that night. And you were holding me back, the same way. Returning the favor."

"Oh." Stiles blinked, thick lashes fluttering and pink lips curling up at the corners. "All right, then. Can we... can we try that again? I liked it. But maybe without the jacket this time?"

Derek quirked a brow eloquently, and the flush pinking Stiles' cheeks darkened into a full-on blush.

"Or not," he hastily backpedalled. Literally, as he took two steps back away from Derek. "I just.... We sort of shared a moment. You know. Me dying and you being there. It was something that no one else knows about, really. Deaton was there, but he wasn't _there_."

Stiles was trying hard to keep his tone light, as though what he was saying wasn't hugely important, but Derek heard what he was saying and he understood. He understood completely, and it hurt him to know that Stiles had been as affected by what had happened as he had been.

Instead of speaking, he shrugged out of his jacket. "Take that shirt off," he instructed, nodding at the red plaid Stiles was wearing. He could see from the unbuttoned collar that Stiles had a teeshirt on underneath, so it wasn't too unreasonable an order.

Stiles gaped at him a moment, but when Derek hung his jacket over the chair he'd been sitting on and toed off his shoes, his eyes got wide and he fumbled with his buttons. "Okay. Just... What...?"

Derek didn't reply to what was, after all, an almost completely incoherent query. Instead, he went and grabbed the soda Stiles had discarded on the bed and set it on his dresser.

"Did you want that?" Stiles asked, peeling off his shirt and tossing it easily over top of Derek's jacket, as though this action was something that didn't matter, that wouldn't mingle their scents together. "You can have it. Or I can get you a cold one."

"If I wanted it, would I have set it down?" Derek asked pointedly.

Stiles stared at him blankly.

Derek restrained an exasperated sigh. "Come here," he instructed, reaching a hand out, fingers curling easily in toward his palm.

Honestly, he almost rethought his resolve when Stiles' eyes rounded and he looked all of twelve years old for a moment.... But then Derek took further note of the stark lines of Stiles' face, the way he'd begun growing into the young man he was on the verge of being, the shadows still evident beneath his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders under the thin material of his teeshirt, and instead of changing his mind he reached out and took hold of Stiles, dragging him into his arms again. Not for a hug, but to hold him close as he got them both settled down on the bed.

It was narrow, barely a twin, but Derek clasped Stiles close to him, sharing space.

"Derek, what--?" Stiles squeaked, and it would have been amusing any other time, but now that he had Stiles in his arms, literally and legitimately, Derek couldn't think of anything other than the way it had felt to hold Stiles while the life ebbed out of his body.

"This is... unexpected," Stiles said into Derek's collarbone, fingers twitching in the material of Derek's shirt, right over his beating heart. 

"Stiles, you died," Derek said softly, daring to reach up and thread his fingers through Stiles' hair, palming the back of his skull. He didn't move his hand, just held on, but it felt right. He ached to say the things that were in his heart. _You died and I felt it happen. You died in my arms. I thought I was going to have to live the rest of my life without ever hearing your voice again. I've lost so much; I didn't want to lose that as well. I didn't want to lose you._

He couldn't speak the words, though. They would render him too vulnerable, show too much of his carefully guarded self. Maybe Stiles was telling the truth when he said that he trusted Derek, but that didn't mean that Derek trusted Stiles in return, or that he should.

"You died, you felt yourself die, and it hurt when you came back to life," he _did_ say, because that was about Stiles, not about Derek. "Are you okay?"

Stiles was silent, and from the tension in his body Derek knew that he'd hit a nerve. He hadn't meant to. But it was better to focus on what Stiles had gone through than what Derek had experienced.

"It was like... everything inside me was getting cold and heavy," Stiles murmured into Derek's shirt front after a few moments had slipped over them in tense silence. "I think I remember saying it hurt... but it didn't really. Well, I mean, it _did_ hurt, a lot, back when you first found me and put me in my Jeep. But it didn't really hurt anymore by the time we got to Deaton's. It was cold and it was dark after my eyes stopped working. And my heart just got slower and slower and my lungs weren't working right, and I was... I was scared. It still felt like it hurt, even once it stopped actually hurting."

Derek nodded, even though Stiles probably couldn't tell since his face was still buried in Derek's shirt.

Stiles let out a weak little chuckle. "You must think I'm such a baby, whining about this when I'm fine now," he whispered, curling closer to Derek like he was trying to hide in his chest.

"I think you're brave," Derek told him seriously, "To be willing to talk about it." He never would have said the things Stiles was saying, not even to members of his family before they had died. It wasn't a failing in Stiles. It was a strength. Stupid as hell, but... well, Stiles trusted Derek, and something in Derek kind of wanted to be worthy of that trust.

Stiles let out a little huff that Derek couldn't figure out, not without seeing his face. "It was scary, but you made it better. I felt like I was all alone, but then you... you touched me, and you held me. And even though everything was getting harder and harder, I felt safe. I knew you couldn't save me, but I wasn't alone and you talked to me and you promised to take care of my Dad...."

Derek held Stiles close as he stopped talking. He seemed to have run out of words, and Derek didn't have anything to say. Not really. He could hold Stiles now, though, the way he had held him that awful night a week ago.

For some reason it just felt right.

Of course, someone had to go and spoil it. Derek just couldn't quite believe that it was _him_ , not Stiles.

"Do you remember... anything... after Deaton brought you back?"

Once he'd haltingly asked this question, uncertain why he had uttered it but eager to hear the answer, silence fell over them again, but less easy, less companionable than it had been before he had asked.

"Not really," Stiles replied, shifting restlessly against him, pressing his head back against Derek's cupping hand in order to look up at him. Derek shifted his hand down to rest on Stiles' shoulder and stared in the direction of the window, not meeting Stiles' eyes. "I think I remember pain, a lot of pain. But mostly I remember waking up alone in my bed."

Derek curled his fingers over Stiles' shoulder, unsure. Maybe he shouldn't be here, holding Stiles on the boy's bed. But it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time....

"It wasn't fun," Stiles continued, and he was still looking at Derek, but Derek wouldn't, _couldn't_ look back. "I ached all over, like I'd been kicked around by a couple of horses. It hurt to move and I was so tired, even though I'd just woken up. I told my Dad I thought I had the flu, but it was about a hundred times worse than that." Stiles let out a little chuckle. "Or, well, at least twice as bad."

"Deaton said you'd be sore and weak," Derek offered, glancing quickly down at Stiles but just as quickly moving his gaze away again.

"It kind of sucked," Stiles told him, fingers tightening in his shirt. "Waking up alone and in pain. I mean, it was better than being dead. And I'm still glad that you stayed with me in the clinic... before. But I was kind of hoping...."

"I did stay," Derek blurted, though he hadn't meant to tell Stiles. "After I took you home. I stayed with you until I heard your father coming in. But then when he came to check on you... I had to leave."

Stiles was quiet. 

"I did stay. Even though you were asleep." Derek didn't know why he felt the need to repeat himself -- he usually didn't -- but he wanted to make sure that Stiles understood and accepted the truth, that Derek had stayed. For Stiles. Well, and for himself, but Stiles didn't need to know that part of it.

"Okay," Stiles said softly. "It's okay. I just...."

"I didn't think you'd want to see me," Derek offered with wrenching honesty. "The next day, I mean. After what happened, I didn't think you'd want...."

"It's fine," Stiles hurried to assure him, though there was a slight jump to his pulse that gave it away as a partial untruth. "I mean, you probably didn't want to be reminded about what happened. It couldn't have been pleasant."

It would have been lying to say it had been the worst experience of Derek's life. There had been so many. Finding out his family had all been burned alive. Finding out he was responsible for that happening. Losing Laura. Having to kill his last remaining family member after discovering he'd been the one to kill Laura. There were so many worse experiences to choose from.

But holding Stiles while he had died had probably been the worst thing that had happened to Derek that hadn't involved his family somehow. And it was definitely in the top tier of the worst things that he'd lived through.

"I didn't think _you_ would want to be reminded... of dying," he said flatly. Because this wasn't about Derek, this was about Stiles. Stiles was the one who had died. Derek had just been the one who had held him and tried to comfort him in his final moments.

Stiles was staring up at him with an unreadable look on his face, and it struck Derek like a hammer to the chest that they were _laying on Stiles' bed together_ , and maybe this wasn't the best place for either of them to be. But it had felt right, and it still... it still felt right, Derek thought. Somehow.

"It wasn't the dying that was the problem," Stiles murmured, his eyes fixed on Derek's face, dark and bright and _so_ much better than when they had been pale, milky marbles. "It was being alone. And thanks to you, I didn't have to be alone. I don't..." he licked his lips, pink tongue flickering over red swells, "I mean, I don't want to sound like I think I'm entitled to your attention. I'm just glad you were there and took care of me while...."

"I thought," Derek said when Stiles let that sentence trail away unfinished, thankfully. "I mean, you've never been shy about.... I thought that when you didn't text me or anything, that you were just as happy not to hear from me."

He felt a little bad putting it back on Stiles like that, but there _were_ two of them involved, and Derek had already gone above and beyond on that night a week ago, when the cockatrice had brushed up against Stiles' leg. They both knew it.

Stiles nodded, and he didn't seem offended by anything Derek had said. "I kind of thought the same, only in reverse. I mean, it must have kinda sucked, watching me bite it."

Derek shivered at the reminder, as well as the casual, easy way Stiles spoke about his _death_. Of course, it was far more personal than Stiles probably realized.... But, on the other hand, Derek himself hadn't realized how much he had actually cared until it had been too late and Stiles had been dead.

Without Derek willing it, his arms tightened. Stiles let out a small squeak as Derek reeled him in against his chest. It was probably wrong, but it felt right. His instincts was to hold Stiles tightly and never let go. Maybe in a moment Stiles would begin to struggle and Derek would have to let him go, but right now he wanted, he _needed_ to keep him close.

Stiles didn't fight it, though. He melted into Derek's torso, arm hesitantly sliding around Derek and his hand coming to rest lightly over the tattoo etched in his skin, through the thin material of his shirt. Stiles was warm and alive and he was solid in Derek's arms. Solid but giving, the way flesh was supposed to feel, not hard the way he had been when he had been petrifying from the inside outward.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said quietly, the words breaking heated and moist over the skin of Derek's neck, right at the collar of his shirt. "For dying in your arms, I mean. But I'm really glad you were there. And you... I don't know if it matters, but you... did everything right."

Derek was silent, spreading his own hand wide over the taut muscles of Stiles' back, feeling the beating of his heart, sinking into the sound and sensation. They both calmed, and Stiles slowly relaxed against him when Derek didn't evince any negative reaction to either his words or his touch.

"It matters," Derek breathed. He hadn't meant to say it, but he didn't really regret the words once they were out. He probably should have but he didn't.

Stiles was silent in response, and Derek was glad. He couldn't think of anything else they needed to say, and there was comfort enough for both of them, lying here on Stiles' bed, holding each other.

Like the night that Stiles had died and come back to life, Derek stayed until he heard the Sheriff arriving, this time at a considerably earlier hour, before the Stilinski dinner hour. This time when Derek left, though, Stiles was awake and aware.

Derek knew that Stiles was watching out his window as he walked away from the house and headed for his car, but he didn't turn around. He wanted to, but he didn't.

And this time he headed straight home, but there was still that itch under his skin that had gotten him running the night Stiles had died. It hadn't gone away, even though he'd seen with his own eyes that Stiles was alive and doing all right. Derek wasn't sure whether he'd expected it to do so or not, in all honesty, and he didn't know how to deal with it. So he did nothing.

It wasn't the best response, he was sure, but it was the only one that felt safe to him.

Without Stiles present, Derek just... he didn't really know what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

"Derek, you jerk!"

Just the day before Derek had been knocking on the door to the Stilinski house, but Stiles evidently didn't feel the need to stand on the same ceremony as he banged into Derek's loft with a loud shout and an overabundance of attitude. Lucky for him the door had been unlocked, because unlike Derek at the clinic a week ago, it was unlikely he'd have been able to kick it open.

"What?" Derek paused where he was folding shirts and dropping them on the back of the sofa, staring at his home invader with a level of surprise that he was feeling too strongly to disguise.

Stiles glared at him, though he did close the door carefully behind himself rather than slamming it. 

"You told Isaac!" Stiles accused, stalking toward the sofa and Derek. "Who told Scott, who then proceeded to completely freak out on me!"

Derek inhaled as Stiles came to a stop on the other side of the sofa and waved his arms about in emphasis. Stiles must have come right over, because he smelled of school. He also smelled very strongly of Scott, and a little less strongly of Isaac. 

Derek's brows rose. He hadn't realized that Isaac would actually care that Stiles had been temporarily dead. He'd anticipated that Isaac would tell Scott, of course, and he'd expected that Scott would be upset, but he wouldn't be smelling Isaac on Stiles if he hadn't touched him at some point, possibly embracing him, and that was a little surprising.

"What are you yelling at me for?" he asked gruffly, frowning down at the shirt in his hands. He hated doing laundry but he did like having clean clothes. It was an eternal annoyance, and yet another reminder that he was an adult who had to make sure to do his own chores. "Did you think Scott wouldn't be upset? Do you think he _shouldn't_ be upset?"

Stiles was scowling at him, Derek could see from the corner of his eye as he continued quietly folding laundry. He was, shock of shocks, wearing a plaid over top of a slogan teeshirt. Something deep inside of Derek was bristling that Stiles smelled so strongly of Scott -- of someone who wasn't Derek -- but he knew to ignore this part of himself, because he had absolutely zero claim over any part of Stiles.

Aside from the part of Stiles that had been in Derek's arms when he had died the week before....

"Dude, it wasn't your place to go telling tales," Stiles sputtered, folding his arms and glaring harder. Derek looked at him and wanted to smile because Stiles looked like nothing more than a disgruntled puppy, but he knew better than that. Stiles was already pissed off enough.

"I just told Isaac about how you nearly died," he offered, setting down the shirt he was holding and folding his own arms to match Stiles' stance.

"No," Stiles shot out, and his cheeks were flushed and he'd never looked so alive, and Derek wanted to... wanted to... well, he wasn't sure, but sweeping Stiles into his arms and feeling all that vibrant life right up against his chest was definitely a part of his desire. 

"No," Stiles continued angrily. "You told Isaac that I _did_ die. Not that I _nearly_ died."

Derek scowled, not liking the reminder. "I only told him the truth," he said stiffly, trying to figure out why Stiles was so angry at him. "He was worried about you and I told him what happened."

Stiles' face went soft, then hardened, then twisted in an expression of outrage. "And did it ever occur to you," he asked dangerously, "That I didn't _want_ anyone to know what really happened?"

Derek stared at him blankly, and Stiles huffed, unfolding his arms and waving his hands around. It was highly likely that Derek shouldn't have been distracted by how long and graceful Stiles' fingers were when the two of them were, evidently, in the middle of a fight; even if Derek didn't understand _why_ they were fighting.

"That was...." Stiles' tongue flickered lightning-quick to wet his lips, and he wasn't glaring anymore, but he didn't look any less unhappy. "That was something for just us, Derek. I didn't.... No one else needed to know. Except, you know, for Deaton. But he isn't going to go talking about it."

Derek huffed, feeling enlightened and yet even more confused, all at the same time. 

"I didn't," he shook his head. "Stiles, I didn't go into any detail. I just told Isaac that you were dead for maybe about five minutes before Deaton brought you back. No more than that, I swear."

Stiles blinked rapidly, and his face twisted again. "Wow, really? Five minutes?" He fixed Derek with a sharp stare. "You didn't tell _me_ that. So you told Isaac something you didn't tell me!"

Derek froze. Stiles sounded... upset... but not furious? He sensed that he was going to have to tread delicately here, but he had no idea how to do so.

"I didn't mean to...." He licked his own lips, cursing himself for showing weakness, but it was Stiles. Stiles, who fixated on his mouth for a moment, then went right back to meeting his eyes like a challenge... or maybe a plea. "It wasn't that I told Isaac something I didn't tell you. I mean, not deliberately. But you were there. We were both there. I didn't.... You were _dead_ and I didn't think it was important to tell you how long? I mean...."

He wasn't even sure any longer what he meant. He wasn't sure why Stiles was pissed at him. And he felt an overwhelming wave of relief as Stiles' face shifted into a thoughtful expression, anger seemingly sliding away.

"Derek." Stiles tilted his head. "Derek, _why_ did you tell Isaac what happened?"

Derek grunted, picking up a shirt and unfolding it, shaking it out, then folding it again just to have something to do with his hands. 

"He wasn't taking the situation seriously enough," he replied honestly, knowing he sounded grouchy but unable to help it. He didn't know why he was being honest, but something in the clear gleam of Stiles' eyes demanded it. "I couldn't let.... He needed to know that you were being quiet because you _literally died_ , not just because you'd had a near-death experience. We have those all the time."

He tacked on that last, echoing Isaac's words, because it was a sad fact. And because what had happened to Stiles had been so, so much worse.

Stiles looked bemused. "Aw, you were defending my honor," he cooed, and if he'd been mocking him, Derek would have left the room right then even though it was _his_ home... but he wasn't. Stiles looked strangely fascinated instead. "Okay, I forgive you."

"How generous of you," Derek drawled dryly.

"Even though Scott completely flipped his shit," Stiles continued, and now his lips were curling up in a wide grin, and it was an improvement on the anger, but Derek had even less idea how to handle it.

So he just shrugged uncomfortably.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and wandered around the sofa, fingertips dragging over the shirts Derek had draped along its back. "I was _quiet_ ," he told Derek, "Because I was sore. It hurt to move. It hurt to even _exist_. And then once that faded, I was quiet because I was processing. Dying isn't something that you just bounce back from, you know? I was thinking... thinking about my Dad... and how he'd have felt. Even though you promised to take care of him, he'd have been devastated."

Derek nodded as Stiles shivered. He'd had the same thoughts and they hadn't been pleasant ones, even though the Sheriff wasn't his father.

Stiles came to stand beside Derek, and without his willing it, Derek turned toward him. He felt off-balance and wanted to face the threat. Only... Stiles wasn't a threat, was he? So why, then, did Derek feel as though he was under attack?

"Then I was quiet because I was thinking about... you," Stiles confessed, softly but not shyly. He peered at Derek from under long lashes, and there was something unknown and frightening in his gaze. Derek was worried but he couldn't look away.

"Me?" he asked, when Stiles left it hanging there.

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, I.... You saved me. You took me to Deaton and you stayed and you held me and you told me you'd take care of my Dad. You didn't leave me while I died. And then I found out that you stayed with me once I was alive again, even if I wasn't conscious for it, and you just told me that you really would have tried to look after my Dad. You... you made everything all right, and you _meant_ it." 

Derek swallowed tightly, because it was true. He'd meant what he'd done. He'd meant what he'd said, all of it, and he didn't even know why.

As though he'd read Derek's mind, Stiles continued. "I was quiet because I was trying to figure out _why_. Why you were willing to... to help me, to hold me, to reassure me...."

Derek shrugged, hunching uncomfortably into himself. "I...."

"Then I figured it out." Stiles gave him a perky look, still smiling, brows rising.

Derek scowled in query.

"You're a good person," Stiles whispered, leaning in as though it was a secret he was sharing, something he didn't want the world to know. He peered at Derek with bright eyes, laughing but not laughing _at_ Derek; he clearly meant what he was saying even though he was speaking lightly. His teeth flashed in a wide grin as he continued, "I'm not saying you're not the badass you want the world to think you are. But you're also a nice guy, Derek."

Derek was already shaking his head. 

"Yes, you are," Stiles pushed, and he wasn't smiling anymore, but the edges of his lips were still faintly curled. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." 

If there was anything Derek was not, it was a good person. But it was surprisingly nice to hear that Stiles thought he was one. It made Derek want to avoid disappointing Stiles, made him want to be good _for Stiles_. 

But in the end Derek knew he would only end up disappointing anyone who believed in him. So he couldn't let Stiles go on thinking something that wasn't true.

"I'm not a good person," he stated flatly. "I wouldn't have done what I did for just anyone. I did it for you because you matter."

The last three words came out in a mumble, because he realized as he spoke them that they were actually worse than what he was trying to deny.

"I do?" Now Stiles was staring at Derek with his mouth hanging open. 

Derek wasn't going to deny what he had just said, but he wasn't going to confirm it either. Stiles had heard him, clearly. He didn't feel the need to repeat something he kind of wished he hadn't said in the first place.

Deciding that they were done talking, Derek gathered up his clean clothes off the back of the sofa, piling them in his arms, then carrying them over to the box near his bed that he used in lieu of a dresser. 

Stiles, predictably enough, followed him.

"Derek." 

He dumped his clothes in the box, then turned to give Stiles the most expressionless stare he could manage. He was painfully aware that it probably wasn't very expressionless. His eyebrows were stern, he was pretty sure, but the rest of his face was a total loss.

"Derek," Stiles repeated, eyes shining and features animated, looking like his old self for the first time since Derek had found him lying next to his Jeep in a jumble of loose limbs. "Hey, you know, I almost died a virgin. Do you know how much that _sucks_?"

"I don't...." Derek cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, as though he might begin running at any moment. He wasn't sure why they were suddenly talking about this, why Stiles thought it was relevant. "What, do you expect me to do something about it?" he found himself asking, unable to ward off the pending disaster.

Stiles took a step and half closer to Derek, and his eyes were dark and warm beneath heavy lids. Derek had to battle against the very real urge to retreat. In no large part because taking a single step backwards would have him falling down onto his bed, and that would have given Stiles the completely wrong impression. But also because he was the Alpha and he shouldn't be intimidated by a sixteen year old virgin.

"Not expect, no," Stiles said archly. "But if you're offering...."

Stiles took that last half step and there he was, right in Derek's personal space. It wasn't the first time, obviously. There had been the day before when they had held one another in Stiles' bedroom, while standing and then while lying on the bed. And previous to that, well, there'd been the first time, when Derek had pushed Stiles up against his door and threatened him while his father was practically in the hall. There had been the two hours in the pool, there'd been those few minutes on the floor of the Police Station....

For all Derek didn't often choose to touch Stiles, they'd been close like this before. Usually in extremis, it was true. And never before with the previously unspoken matter of Stiles' virginity spoken of and put out there as something that Derek might have anything to do with....

Stiles should have been shy or anxious, Derek thought. Instead he was confident, bold, his chin raised and his eyes flickering between Derek's eyes and his mouth, the warm, rich smell of his growing arousal leaving Derek no room for mistaking his intent. 

Derek felt an emotion approaching terror fill him as he came to realize that while he had been wallowing in denial, Stiles had been working all of this out in that overly-sharp brain of his.

"You're not...." He dragged in a long, slow breath, realizing too late that he was inhaling the heady smell of Stiles' lust. Not that he hadn't already picked up on the meaning behind Stiles' words -- Stiles wasn't exactly being subtle -- but this was something that was going to affect his own judgment and he damned well knew it.

It wasn't as though Derek had never thought about it before. Stiles was... he was Stiles. He was attractive even if he didn't know how to use his features to his best advantage. He was brave and strong and loyal to a fault. He had his flaws, of course, everyone did, but he had more good points than bad, and he made Derek... he made him _want_ , even though Derek had tried to bury those desires down where they would never see the light of day.

It was day now, and Stiles was here, and he was pushing Derek to face his hidden desires. It wasn't.... It wasn't _fair_.

"Derek." Stiles was so close that their scents were mingling, and Derek realized that Stiles wasn't the only one who was aroused. "Derek, you said I mattered. You... you meant it, right?"

He couldn't deny it now, but he couldn't be the one to make the first move. Or, well, in this case, the second or third. Since Stiles had made his feelings known and put himself out there on the line.

Because... Stiles was only sixteen. He was the son of the town Sheriff. He was human, and he was overly inclined to throw himself in the path of danger for those he cared about regardless of that last fact. Getting involved with him wouldn't be the worst thing Derek could do -- no, that would have been giving Kate Argent the means to destroy almost his entire family -- but it might well be the worst thing he could do _for Stiles_. 

Derek was weak. He wasn't going to be able to push Stiles away. But he couldn't draw him in, either. The day before they had held one another, but it had been for comfort. This was... this was something completely different.

"You probably already know this," Stiles breathed, reaching up and easily, lazily draping his arms around Derek's neck, linking his hands behind his head, his mouth inches from Derek's, "What with the whole trusting you thing, but you matter to me too."

Then he saved Derek the trouble of figuring out what to say in reply to this as he closed the scant space between their faces and plastered his lips against Derek's.

It was clear within half a heartbeat that Stiles wasn't anything approaching an expert at kissing. Derek was surprisingly okay with that. Or maybe not so surprising, if the fact that Stiles was kissing him wasn't surprising enough. The idea that Stiles hadn't kissed many other people -- maybe _any_ other people? -- made the possessive side of Derek flare, filled him with a certain dark joy over the fact that he was getting this, that Stiles was giving this to him.

Derek might have had his apprehensions, he might have tried to control himself for Stiles' sake, but now that Stiles was here, right here, kissing him... well, there was no more room left in him for restraint. The desire might be new to him -- or at least the conscious acknowledgement of his desire -- but now that it was at the forefront of his mind, he didn't even try to deny it.

Denial had gotten him this far, and it had enabled Stiles to take him by surprise. Derek kind of needed to let go of denial now, because it wasn't going to be of any further use. He wanted Stiles, and after almost losing him -- after _actually losing_ him, if only for about five minutes -- he needed to own up to that.

Something shattered inside of Derek, much like it had that night in the clinic. But that had been a painful experience; letting go his hard-won, thickly built-up walls in order to reach out to Stiles and offer him comfort while he became petrified. This was much the same and Derek felt the wrench, but after the pain he let himself realize that he could have what he wanted... which was as much a pleasant emotion as it was a terrifying one.

Stiles had told Derek that he mattered. There had been no lie in his voice, no shift in his pulse or his scent. He had meant what he had said. This was the first time Derek had mattered to someone since Laura's murder. Or if not, it was the first time someone had told him so. It was certainly the first time Derek had let himself _believe_ it.

Derek didn't understand how he had come to matter to Stiles. He didn't know why Stiles trusted him. But he knew that Stiles had been speaking the truth, and it made him feel as much warm and safe as it made him feel afraid and out of control.

There _was_ fear; this could so easily go wrong. Stiles was letting Derek in, which meant that Derek could hurt Stiles, he could damage him. And Derek had told Stiles that he mattered, which gave Stiles a certain amount of power over him in turn. Derek didn't deal well with those who could affect him in any way....

And yet, even though Derek didn't think that he trusted Stiles the way Stiles trusted him, he didn't think that Stiles would do him any harm on purpose. Not the way that Kate had, or Peter, or Scott....

At least not without good reason, and Derek didn't intend to give him any reason, good or bad.

"Hey." Stiles dragged his mouth away from Derek's, the lips redder and more plump than normal, and moist with saliva. His cheeks were pink and he looked edible, already well on his way to being debauched, but his brow creased in a concerned frown as his eyes roamed over Derek's face. "Are you okay? Is this okay, Derek? I can... I can leave if you want...."

He sounded so small and sad and ready to admit defeat that Derek felt guilt twist in his heart. He wanted Stiles and Stiles wanted him, and if Stiles really was trusting Derek with his virginity, Derek probably ought to be trying harder to do this right.

"Don't," he got out, hands tightening where they were unexpectedly resting on Stiles' hard hips. He wasn't sure how they'd gotten there, but he was glad to find that he was touching Stiles in returned, even though it had been Stiles who had been brave enough to touch him first.

Stiles' face shifted into a small but honest smile, his eyes alight, and his hands curled around Derek's shoulders where he had shifted them when he had pulled away. 

"Is this okay?" he asked, still uncertain. "I wanted... I thought.... But I might have read things wrong...."

"Take off your shirt," Derek ordered, this time in a completely different tone than when they had been in Stiles' bedroom the day before. He watched the red blaze in Stiles' cheeks, hectic patches heating the pale skin, and the scent of his arousal ratcheted up. They were standing close enough that Derek could feel Stiles hardening in his jeans, and unlike when he had been becoming petrified, Derek could appreciate _this_ growing stiffness.

Derek grimaced internally, banishing awful puns from his brain -- it wasn't funny; Stiles had _died_ \-- and focusing instead on the delicious image that Stiles presented before him, sliding off his plaid and then plucking at the teeshirt he wore under it.

"You too?" Stiles requested, as though Derek's tank really covered so much.

Derek smirked crookedly and removed the tank as directed, never once breaking eye contact with Stiles.

Not that Stiles was still looking at Derek's face once he had his shirt off. His gaze slid down to Derek's chest, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, lips open. It was flattering, Derek thought. Of course, it wasn't as though Stiles hadn't seen him without his top on before. But never with so little distance between them. Never with the intent to relieve Stiles of his virginity....

Stiles still had his teeshirt on, and now that Derek thought about it, he hadn't ever seen Stiles nearly nude. He'd seen the majority of Stiles' torso a week ago, when Deaton had been wielding the defibrillator, but Derek preferred not to think about that right now. 

Though it did remind him why it was so important to appreciate what Stiles was willing to give him right now... because everything that Stiles was could be torn away at any moment.

That thought was _definitely_ too heavy for Derek to be dwelling on, though, when Stiles was reaching up with unsteady fingers and lightly tracing the swells of Derek's pectorals, well above his nipples. 

Derek had barely adjusted to the almost ticklish sensation when Stiles whipped his hand away and swallowed, raising his heated gaze and mumbling, "Sorry."

"Isn't that what we're here for?" Derek asked, quirking one brow.

"Well," Stiles wrung the material of his plaid, which he'd still been clutching in his free hand, between both of his hands "I just... feel like I should ask first."

Derek frowned. That wasn't what he'd been expecting, not after Stiles' initial boldness, and it made him feel awkward and a bit anxious in turn. "Is that what you want from me?" he wanted to know. "Should I be asking permission?"

Stiles' eyes rounded. "No, actually the opposite of that," he blurted fervently, face going blotchy red with the heat of his mounting arousal and possible embarrassment. There was no question that he meant what he said, and Derek allowed an unabashedly wolfish grin to spread his lips, expose his white teeth. 

"Good," he growled, because that was more like what he'd thought, and now that he'd decided to let go restraint and anxiety, he was sure of what he wanted and pretty sure of what Stiles wanted.

Stiles let out a completely undignified squeak when Derek grabbed his teeshirt and stripped it up over his head and off, then he yelped and flailed as Derek leaned down to grab him by the knees and lifted, tossing him easily onto his back on the bed.

"Oh my God!" Stiles choked out, arms and legs all akimbo, bunching and wrinkling Derek's bedcovers as he wriggled uselessly. "Derek!"

"Problem?" Derek asked, folding his arms and staring down at Stiles. He wasn't repentant, because he could tell from Stiles' scent that this was exactly what the boy wanted.

"Well, no." Stiles struggled up onto his elbows, his bare chest heaving. "But a little warning might be nice."

"It might," Derek agreed amicably, allowing his gaze to slide over Stiles in his shirtless state. He was toned, which was hardly surprising when he played lacrosse and fought for his life on a regular basis. He was more than likely still working through his final growth spurt, but his shoulders were already startlingly broad and his chest was getting there. He was definitely not a child. 

Derek would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't considered Stiles sexually. But he'd always put any such thoughts out of his mind before they'd fully formed. Because... well, _sixteen_. But if Stiles was old enough to stay strong and brave while dying in Derek's arms, then he was old enough to demand this. If Derek was what Stiles wanted, then Derek was just going to have to man up and admit to his own desires.

"Derek." Stiles was looking up at him, and his expression had gone unaccountably serious, as though he somehow knew what was passing through Derek's mind... though he couldn't, right?

"Yeah?" Derek grunted, waiting to see what Stiles said before he decided whether or not to join him on the mattress.

Stiles licked kiss-bruised lips and it was possible he could have looked more tempting, Derek thought hungrily, but he would be hard-pressed to say _how_. 

"I keep dreaming... I keep remembering...." Stiles sighed and shook his head. "I know what it's like to die, okay, and _I don't like it_. It felt so cold and distant. I'm glad that you held me, I really am, but I couldn't really _feel_ it. Could you... get down here and hold me now, so that I can feel how alive I am?"

That was what Derek wanted too, for his own selfish reasons. Besides, that was too heartbreaking a plea to resist. So Derek hurried to comply, not even bothering to remove his jeans first. 

He joined Stiles on his mattress, as close as they had been when they had been on Stiles' bed the day before, only this time their chests were bare, and Stiles was much more confident when he placed his hand over Derek's tattoo and exerted pressure.

Derek took the hint, bending his head and claiming Stiles' mouth again. This time he slipped his tongue right between those plump lips that parted so sweetly when Stiles gasped in surprise, and tasted Stiles' mouth the way he hadn't had a chance when it had been Stiles kissing him.

Stiles was warm and his muscles were firm but so much softer than they had been a week ago in Deaton's clinic. Derek allowed himself to appreciate the distinction, as well as allowing himself to simply appreciate the lithe young body in his arms. 

Maybe this was the reason he'd never allowed himself to deliberately touch Stiles; because once he began, it was going to prove impossible to stop. 

Derek was so used to not being able to have nice things that he wasn't quite sure how to handle what Stiles was offering. A part of Derek, a big part, was afraid that merely the act of accepting this and claiming what he wanted would be enough to have the universe snatching it away from him.

On the other hand. It wasn't as though Stiles was actually a nice thing. He was a good person, yes, and he'd proven loyal to Derek more than once, but he was kind of an asshole. Maybe that fact would balance out Derek's natural tendency toward disaster in his personal life?

It was kind of hard to think with Stiles' tongue twining around his inside the boy's mouth, the pads of Stiles' fingers dragging over the lines of his tattoo, Stiles' heart beating hard and fast between them, and small sounds coming from his throat that were similar to and yet _nothing_ like the noises of pain he'd been making a week ago. 

Exercising courage he hadn't known he possessed, Derek decided to just let everything go and be in the moment. He had no idea what Stiles wanted, outside this tangled tryst on his bed right now, but whatever it was, they could deal with it later.

Later, after they had both gotten off.

Derek was propping most of his weight up on his elbows and knees, trying to be considerate, but then he remembered that Stiles had said he wanted to _feel_ this. Stiles was strong, stronger than he looked. Also, he'd reacted pretty favorably to being manhandled onto the bed. 

So, cautiously, Derek allowed his body to settle down on top of Stiles'.

This got him a muffled sound of approval, and a sharp sudden bowing of Stiles' torso that ground their crotches together, bringing it instantly and undeniably to Derek's attention that they were both hard. Not that he hadn't known this. But now he was very aware of that fact.

Stiles was about the same height that Derek was, which put them together, face to face, chest to chest, belly to belly, and cock to cock. Stiles' legs were spread to either side of Derek's thighs, but when Derek gave an exploratory rock of his hips they tightened and Stiles locked his feet together somewhere behind Derek's knees and he strained into this friction, his fingers scrabbling desperately at the bunched muscles of Derek's back.

"Oh shit," Stiles breathed, wrenching his mouth away from Derek's and tipping his head back into the pillows, his chest heaving. It might have been incidental, the way he'd just bared his throat, but Derek wasn't above taking advantage.

Stiles let out a cracked sound that wasn't any word Derek knew as he settled his mouth against the pulse throbbing in that long, pale stretch of neck, kissing it first, then biting gently before laving it with a broad sweep of his tongue. He could feel Stiles' nails digging blunt into the skin of his back, but it didn't bother him. He didn't really dare to give Stiles a hickey where his father might see, and so he reluctantly left off the beautiful line of Stiles' throat after giving it a few more lightly sucking kisses.

He wasn't anywhere near done yet, however. 

Lifting himself up on his elbows, Derek bent and mouthed at the sharp curve of Stiles' collarbone, where it pressed stark against the delicate skin. This was safer, because Stiles could wear a shirt with a higher collar than usual tomorrow, and so Derek gave in to the overwhelming temptation and bit, hard. He made sure to keep his teeth human and he made even more sure not to break the skin, but when he drew away after a very viscerally satisfying moment, he left behind a perfect imprint of his bite, prominently marking Stiles as _his_.

Raising his eyes from admiring the red indents that would undoubtedly bruise to a nice purple within the hour, Derek met Stiles' heated gaze. 

"Ow," Stiles said, but he very clearly didn't mean it. Not with the way he was clinging to Derek's shoulders, arching up against his body, his hips working away to rub his denim encased hard-on against Derek's, just as tragically trapped in his jeans. The thick scent of Stiles precome stained the air between them, a silent testament to how much Stiles had evidently liked that.

"Was that something I should have warned for too?" Derek asked archly, diving back in and kissing Stiles' mouth crimson and panting before he could answer.

"Damn it," Stiles groaned, once Derek reluctantly released his lips again. He looked wrecked already and they were both still half-clothed. Derek strongly suspected that if he hadn't been resting most of his weight on Stiles to restrain his movement, that he would have already rutted against Derek to the point of orgasm. He was definitely that eager, and he seemed that close to popping off and jizzing his pants.

Well, he _was_ sixteen. Derek briefly considered just letting him do it, letting Stiles frot his way to climax against his lower belly.... 

But then he'd make a mess in his jeans, and while the thought of Stiles borrowing his clothes had something in Derek rousing in possessive passion, he didn't think it would be worth the whining he'd have to put up with in the end.

Since Stiles hadn't said anything about needing a warning, Derek reared back and knelt between Stiles' legs, moving easily despite the clinging grasp of both Stiles' arms and legs. Stiles was strong, true, but Derek was stronger.

"Hey!" Stiles protested, already reaching after him, but he shut up real quick and collapsed back into the mattress with a loud gasp when Derek's hands went unhesitatingly to the fly of his jeans. "Oh."

His lips curved in a plush circle, red and wet with their mingled saliva, and it took pretty much all the will power Derek possessed to continue on with his self-appointed task of freeing Stiles from his jeans rather than pouncing on him and kissing him breathless all over again.

"I, uh, I approve," Stiles mumbled, obediently raising a leg as Derek dragged the denim down his lean thigh. He was wearing dark boxers, already liberally stained at the front, and Derek really wanted to bury his nose in his crotch... so that was what he did as soon as he tossed the jeans over the edge of the bed, inhaling deeply. He smelled cotton and laundry detergent, but over it all and overwhelming was the scent of Stiles' precome, thick and salty and tempting, making Derek's mouth water.

"Holy shit, no biting there," Stiles squeaked, kind of ruining the moment. 

Derek raised his head, sighing. "Really, Stiles?" he asked, rising off the bed with a little less than his usual grace thanks to the insistent hard-on pressing at the front of his own jeans.

"Don't go," Stiles blurted, jerking upright and reaching out for Derek with a frantic panic that startled Derek a little. He did his best to hide this startlement, though, instead unzipping his fly and shoving his jeans down.

"I'm not going anywhere," he reassured Stiles, brows arching. 

Stiles huffed, slumping over and palming at his erection through the thin material of his boxers. "I wasn't... I was kidding," he offered weakly, and he wasn't lying, but Derek was more concerned with the way his pulse was fluttering with clear distress, as though it was painful for him to be separated from Derek for as long as it took him to undress. "I didn't really think you'd bite."

"Well, not _there_ ," Derek replied, eyeing the pale perfection of Stiles' inner thighs. Some hickeys, tooth-marks, and maybe some beard burn would compliment the creamy skin nicely, he thought. Maybe not right now, because they both wanted to get off, but in the future....

And Stiles was making him think of the future with a frightening amount of surety, Derek realized.... But there was no way this was going to be a one-time thing, for either of them. Even though Derek wasn't quite sure where it had come from, he could be certain of that much.

Stiles was flushed, all the way down his chest, and it should have looked a little silly but he wore it beautifully. Derek eyed the neat bruises circling Stiles' clavicle, and he knew that this was only the start. There was so much more flawless skin for him to mark.

Well, not literally flawless. Derek himself had no scars, having been born a werewolf, but Stiles had been born human, was still human, and not only did he run with the wolves, but he had by all accounts been a clumsy child and he was still prone to falling over for various reasons even now. So, no, his skin was not technically free of flaws; he had plenty of reminders of past accidents. Someday Derek thought he might like to mentally catalog all the scars that Stiles bore on his body. Asking their origin and marking each in his mind with saliva and fingertips.

But not right now. Right now they somewhere to get, together and quickly.

"Take off your boxers," he instructed, because he wasn't going to remove his underwear until Stiles took his off, and also because he wanted to get back on the mattress with Stiles. Getting them both naked _before_ that happened would make things a lot easier in both the long run and the short run. Tearing someone's clothes off _was_ possible with claws and supernatural strength, true, but it wasn't nearly as sexy as it sounded. It tended to result in friction burns on fragile human flesh, Derek knew. Some things only worked well in fiction.

Stiles was scarlet by now, but he moved to obey Derek easily enough, hands already at the waistband of his boxers. 

"You too, right?" he asked anxiously, shifting his hips and slowly, agonizingly slowly tugging the elastic down. 

"Of course," Derek replied absently, eyeing the thick line of hair that made its way down Stiles belly from his navel to....

"Would it be bad manners to tell you to stop staring?" 

Stiles sounded nervous, his voice jumping a little, and he'd frozen with his boxers only halfway down his bony hips. He was still turned on, Derek could tell at a visual and olfactory level, but less so than he had been a moment ago.

"No, not really," he said, raising his eyes and looking at Stiles from under heavy lids. His gaze felt heated and he knew his own cheeks were flushed, though nowhere near as brightly as Stiles'. "If you want me to stop staring, I'll stop staring. It should be flattering that I _want_ to stare, though."

Stiles ducked his head, though he maintained eye contact. "It's flattering," he husked, licking his lips. "And I kind of like it, but...."

"That's fine," Derek gruffed, feeling the need to reassure Stiles. The kid was confident about a lot of things, but if he'd been telling the truth about being a virgin -- and Derek saw no reason to doubt his words -- this whole "stripping to naked in front of someone" was something he didn't have a whole lot of experience with. Not outside the locker room, where the unwritten rule was _don't look directly at anything below the waist_.

Stiles gave him an unexpectedly coy smile and he wriggled his way out of his boxers, then tossed them over the edge of the bed with a flourish. "Do you like what you see?" he asked. His face was still burning all the way to the tips of his ears and he had his knees drawn up to mostly hide his jutting erection, but he seemed to have regained a majority of his self confidence.

Derek smirked, glad that Stiles was already growing easier with the situation, within a matter of minutes. Stiles always adapted to things quickly; a trait that Derek had to admit that he admired, though he would never say so out loud.

"I wouldn't be looking if I didn't like what I saw," he murmured, sliding his thumbs under the waistband of his boxer-briefs and peeling them down.

Whatever pleased response Stiles might have had to Derek's admittedly somewhat lackluster compliment was lost when Stiles' eyes widened and his gaze fixed on Derek's hard cock.

"Whoa." Stiles' mouth was curved in that red circle again, and Derek gave passing thought to sliding the head of his cock right in there, smooth as silk and hot as the blood pumping through Stiles' heart. Maybe later. Maybe later he would have Stiles begging for it. 

Derek had no idea what sort of desires Stiles had, what sort of fantasies he indulged in, but he was willing to learn and to enact as many with them as Stiles wanted. And now that they were here, Derek was discovering that he had a few of his own that he would like to give a try.

"Down," he commanded, one hand pressing at Stiles' shoulder, one knee on the mattress, and then as Stiles settled back into the rumpled covers as directed, Derek crawled over him once again.

"You know, it's kind of sexy when you order me around," Stiles said, opening his thighs again and spreading his hands over Derek's chest, fingers brushing over his nipples as he took his place there, "But don't always expect me to roll over for you."

Derek quirked a brow and grinned wickedly. "But there's so many benefits to rolling over for me," he rumbled, lowering himself onto Stiles and grinding their hard cocks together. Stiles was well endowed and while Derek took a certain juvenile satisfaction in knowing he was bigger, he was also impressed. It felt good, the thick shaft of Stiles' cock sliding alongside his own between the pressure of their bellies, the rounded tip of Stiles' cock bumping at the base of his cock head.

"Ooh, you bastard," Stiles moaned, wrapping his arms around Derek and clinging. His hips jolted and Derek could feel a blurt of heated wetness breaking between them, staining the skin of their stomachs. 

He chuckled unrepentantly, pressing the side of his face to the side of Stiles' face, breathing into the sworls of his ear, then lapping at the lobe before drawing it into his mouth.

Stiles whined, squirming restlessly beneath Derek, arms tight around his shoulders, fingers digging into the nape of Derek's neck.

Derek allowed this, even though it was showing Stiles an awful lot of trust. Stiles probably didn't realize that, though, so it was all right. 

It struck Derek unexpectedly that he might actually trust Stiles, to a certain extent, but he wasn't going to focus on that right now. He _couldn't_ , when he had Stiles under him, their bodies pressed together, Stiles' hard-on punching up alongside his between them as he rocked against Derek with steadily growing intent.

He wanted to touch Stiles all over, Derek thought hazily as he licked and sucked lightly at Stiles' neck again, tasting the salt of perspiration and desire on his skin, listening to Stiles' panting in his ear, but he didn't think that was going to happen right now. His hands were settled over Stiles' shoulders, holding him still as he set to his own rocking rhythm. He set a more deliberate pace, and he had more traction with his knees buried in the mattress.

Stiles let out a whining sound, arms locking more frantically around Derek's shoulders, fingers scrabbling for a hold. He wasn't scratching, which Derek was grateful for, but he seemed to need something to cling to.

"Derek," he whined, but when nothing more came out of his mouth other than some hard breaths, Derek shifted to kiss his mouth again, and then again, light and wet, rubbing their lips together, keeping it gentle to avoid clashing their teeth. The heat of passion was one thing, but Derek didn't get off on pain and he didn't think Stiles did either.

What was going on in the humid lack of space between their lower bellies was pretty much the complete opposite of pain, and Derek was growing short of breath himself, his motions becoming quicker and more choppy as the pleasure increased, flooding his system, overwhelming higher brain functions. 

Was he going to rut against Stiles until they both came? Evidently so. And he couldn't bring himself to care, not when it felt this good, when Stiles sounded and smelled so delicious. Their precome was mingled, smeared all over both their stomachs, and Derek swore he could feel the prickly catch of Stiles' glory trail as he rubbed his hard cock shamelessly into Stiles' lower abdomen. 

Stiles' legs were locked around him again, even more tightly than before, and he was twisting as much as he could manage beneath Derek's overwhelming weight, low whines and small moans escaping his wet mouth along with his ragged gasps for air. 

Derek wanted to ask if Stiles felt alive now, but that would have required forming words and he was a little beyond that right now. He was pretty sure he knew the answer to that anyway. He could feel Stiles everywhere, over every inch of his skin, even in places they were not touching, and the mingled scent of their sex swept over his senses in a heady rush. 

Considering that it was Stiles who was the sixteen year old virgin, Derek was more than a little surprised when he was the one who came first. It was a little like being smacked in the back of the head by a baseball bat, only it was pure pleasure that broke through him and flooded his system, rather than pain. He hunched, breath escaping him in a throttled grunt, and his cock jumped as he spent himself on Stiles' stomach, shooting off all over Stiles' own twitching cock in thick spurts.

"Oh my God," Stiles gasped, somehow managing to form an actual sentence, though he spoke it all as one word, and then he was shivering and shaking in the circle of Derek's possessive embrace as his own climax took him, his entire lower torso rocking hard enough to shift Derek, his cock spitting blood-hot and wet jizz all over both of them, mixing with Derek's own in the most amazing scent Derek had ever smelled in his life.

Feeling as though all his bones were heated liquid now, Derek allowed himself to slump over Stiles, burying his face in the curve of his neck. Their bodies were pressed together, his tingling cock still caught in the slick-wet heat between their bellies, and Derek lazily licked at the sweat coating the skin in front of his mouth. He knew he was heavy, all compact muscle and plenty of it, but Stiles was no delicate flower; he could handle it, if only for as long as it took Derek to get his breathing under control.

Derek wallowed in the afterglow for a few glorious minutes, eventually lifting his head enough to kiss Stiles on the mouth. Stiles sleepily kissed back, lips soft and pliable, his own breathing slowing to a normal rate, and then he pushed at Derek's shoulder.

"Off," he mumbled into Derek's chin, and Derek reluctantly complied, sliding to the side but keeping Stiles close. He made a long arm and retrieved Stiles' discarded shirt, using it to wipe off some of the jizz covering both of them, a smug smirk hovering at the edges of his lips. He would lend Stiles one of his own shirts once it was time to get dressed. Unlike the jeans, that was something that was completely reasonable, and it was going to be one hundred percent sexy.

"Gross," Stiles sighed happily, either not noticing or not caring that his shirt was now filthy. He ran a hand over his belly, then Derek's, fingers sliding through the lingering traces of their semen, then he raised his hand and the top of Derek's head nearly blew off as he lapped delicately at the thin sheen on his fingertips.

"Definitely gross," Stiles declared, but he was grinning wickedly at Derek as he said it, laying there on Derek's sheets, his face pink, his mouth red, his eyes hot and sated, covered in Derek's saliva and semen, a mark of ownership rising on his collarbone, his hair dark with sweat, and he made no protest when Derek wrapped him up in his arms, pulling him achingly close and claiming his mouth, kissing away the flavor of them both from those plush lips.

"So, that was kind of unexpected," Stiles said softly, once they'd gotten their fill of kissing and were laying there with Stiles tucked up against Derek's side, his head pillowed on Derek's shoulder. They should probably go and bathe or something, but Derek liked the way they smelled, the way they felt together right now. He was in no hurry, and if Stiles kept aimlessly trailing his fingertips over his chest the way he was doing, Derek was going to be ready for round two of dealing with what might remain of Stiles' virginity before too much time had passed.

"Was it?" he asked, because at this point he wasn't really sure any longer. Stiles had invited, Derek had acted.... 

Well, in all honesty it had been Stiles who had acted upon his own invitation. But Derek hadn't at any point resisted, and once he'd realized that they both wanted this he'd been proactive about making sure they both got it. They'd gotten where they were, laying here covered in sweat and jizz, together.

"Mm, maybe," Stiles hummed, turning his head and pressing a heavy kiss to Derek's pectoral. It sent a shiver through him, affecting him more than he would have expected. Mostly on a physical level, but it made his heart ache as well, and not in a bad way. "Maybe not."

They rested in silence for a few moments, Derek breathing in the smell of them both, feeling his cock throbbing warm and sated, spent but still plump with pleasure, his arms holding Stiles close, Stiles' breath hot and moist on his shoulder. Derek felt contented. He knew it wouldn't last. He knew it _couldn't_ last. But that didn't mean he wasn't allowed to enjoy it right now.

"It _was_ kind of unexpected," Stiles yawned, evidently coming to a decision.

"Yeah," Derek agreed, shifting his hand to scratch at Stiles' scalp through his hair. They really ought to go and bathe, but right now moving was about the furthest thing from his mind.

"I didn't.... I didn't even think you liked me," Stiles said, shifting in Derek's arms, but closer, not further away. "I kind of thought you hated me. But then that night...."

"You're not allowed to die," Derek ground out, his embrace tightening. "Never again, Stiles. Once was more than-- more than enough."

He wanted to say _"More than I could take,"_ but that would be revealing too much, rendering himself too vulnerable. Though if there was anyone he could show his underbelly to, it just might be Stiles. Maybe. Someday.

"Dude, not planning on it," Stiles huffed, sounding annoyed and amused all at once. He wasn't taking his own death lightly, Derek instinctively understood, but neither of them wanted to dwell on it any further right now.

"Don't call me dude," Derek instructed, and smiled a little when Stiles laughed breathlessly.

He reluctantly loosened his grip when Stiles squirmed against him, but all Stiles did was shove him onto his back and then scramble over top of him, straddling his waist, his limp cock heating the skin right above Derek's navel, his hands spread over Derek's chest again, his face pink as he stared down at Derek with intent focus.

"Can we do that again?" Stiles asked, wriggling a little, then blushing as this move ground his bare ass into Derek's belly. "I don't want to leave until I can be _sure_ I'm not a virgin anymore."

Derek grinning up at him, hands sliding easily over the bony protrusions of Stiles' hips, fingertips caressing the upper swells of his buttocks. He could have pointed out that by most definitions of virginity, getting off together had taken care of that. But there were other, more particular definitions of virginity and the loss thereof, so if Stiles wanted to take a stab at some of those....

Well, who was Derek to try to dissuade him?

There was one thing he wanted to find out before they got back to it, though. Derek probably could have left it alone, and normally he would have. But it was nagging at him, and he didn't think he would get a better time to ask, than when Stiles was squirming naked on top of his stomach.

"Stiles, why was it my number you called?" he asked, caressing Stiles' hips and ass, palming his thighs, but always maintaining eye contact. "And don't give me any more bullshit about it being an accident. You didn't know I was in the wood but you called me anyway."

Stiles' face twisted into an expression that Derek couldn't read. Not that this was anything unusual; he often had trouble figuring Stiles out.

"I called you because I knew you'd come for me," Stiles said, staring at Derek intently. "I wasn't bullshitting when I said that I trusted you."

"Huh." Derek stared back, mulling that over. It wasn't really surprising, and yet it was. It was a little scary hearing Stiles say it, knowing just _how much_ he trusted Derek.

"It's no big deal," Stiles said, shrugging, and he almost sounded like he meant it. He sounded like he _wanted_ to mean it, but Derek knew better, and so he only hesitated for a moment before he told Stiles;

"If our situations had been reversed, it would have been you that I called."

"Really?" Stiles brows rose, arching over his eyes in wings of startlement.

Derek considered what he had just said. "Well, probably." He considered it some more. "Maybe."

Instead of getting offended, Stiles laughed and dropped down so that he was sprawled over top of Derek, wriggling until he could kiss him.

"If you'd been turning to stone you'd have been even harder to lift than you are now, so if something like that happens to you, feel free to call someone else to do the heavy lifting," he murmured into Derek's chin, his teeth sharp, nipping carefully through the stubble, sending a flash of arousal through Derek that he had no intention of denying. "Someone who's got werewolf strength. But... I wouldn't complain if I was at the top of your speed dial list."

He sounded amused and confident, yes, but Derek thought he detected a trace of doubt and insecurity underneath the lightness of his tone. So it didn't really cost him much to tell Stiles the truth.

"You're already at the top of my contacts."

"Really?" Stiles reared up far enough that he could meet Derek's eyes, his own round and almost frightened. Derek understood, though. They were treading on new ground here, and neither of them really knew what they were doing.

"I know you'll probably pick up," he informed Stiles. "Scott's more likely to listen to you than me. And your father is the Sheriff, even though we both want to keep him out of the supernatural side of things."

Stiles nodded faintly, his gaze distant. "Makes sense." He smiled and ducked his head slightly. "Th-thanks... I guess."

"Am I at the top of your contact list?" Derek felt compelled to ask, allowing his hands to slid down, digging his fingers into the taut swells of Stiles' ass. It felt amazing under his palms and he almost lost track entirely of what they were saying.

"Lucky for me," Stiles said, with a huff of breath that broke over Derek's throat as he lowered his head and licked carefully at his Adam's apple. "Otherwise I'd be--"

"Don't say it," Derek growled, flipping them both so that he had Stiles underneath him all over again. Even though they both knew it was true, he hated the thought of Stiles being dead and staying dead.

"Derek!" Stiles squalled, hands grasping at Derek's shoulders and legs kicking out ineffectually. "Damn it!"

"You know you like it," Derek told him wickedly, feeling powerfully that the time for serious conversation was over. Even though he'd been the one to bring it up.... But he'd found out what he wanted to know, and he'd virtually confessed to Stiles that he actually trusted him. He hadn't said it in so many words, no, but Stiles was bright and he'd probably already figured it out. It had certainly taken Derek long enough to figure it out. Or at least to be willing to admit to it.

"It's not...." Stiles let out a little huff. "I can't just let you get away with it," he grumbled, punching Derek's shoulder in a blow that wouldn't have hurt even if he'd been human. 

"That doesn't mean you want me to stop," Derek pointed out, nosing at the mark he'd left on Stiles' collarbone. He understood, without Stiles having to articulate it. From his scent and his body language, Stiles very much enjoyed being manhandled by Derek. And yet he couldn't let go his autonomy and just limply take it. His pride wouldn't allow that, and if Derek was honest, it wouldn't be any fun for him either.

Stiles might not be prey, exactly, but he was fun to hunt and pounce and play with. Derek was pretty sure they were both going to enjoy the chase. Nothing was ever easy with the two of them, so why should sex be different? Derek _liked_ that Stiles put up a protest. And if he ever actually _meant_ it, then Derek would back off in a heartbeat. But so far, though Stiles had squeaked and writhed against him, he'd done nothing to indicate that was doing anything other than turning him on. A lot.

"So, did you want to find out what I can do if you roll over for me?" Derek wondered, licking at the purpling bruises he'd marked in Stiles' pale skin. He could feel the blood hot beneath the surface, and he could smell Stiles' renewed arousal... as well as his own.

"I, um, I might be willing to admit to a small amount of curiosity," Stiles coughed out, and even without looking Derek _knew_ that he was blushing again. This despite the fact that they'd been rubbing their cocks all over each other just now, had come all over each other, and were on the verge of doing more, much more.

But then, maybe it was _because_ they were about to do more, go further. Derek didn't get off on the whole "blushing virgin" thing -- which was good, because once he was done with Stiles he wouldn't be a virgin anymore -- but he was definitely very happy to know that no one else had ever touched Stiles the way he had, the way he was going to do. It made something deep inside him rumble in pride and contentment. 

"So, roll over," he instructed, lifting himself off of Stiles a little and giving him a commanding look.

Stiles stared back for several heartbeats, then a wide smile curved his lips.

"Why don't you make me," he challenged.

Since he had no reason not to, Derek did.

And true to his unspoken promise, they both enjoyed it very much.

Derek still hoped he'd never have to hold Stiles while he died, ever again, and he had no intention of losing him now that he had him, but at least now Stiles couldn't complain about dying a virgin.

Derek was going to take care of Stiles from here on out. And maybe, just maybe, he'd allow Stiles to take care of him in turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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